Quotes About Existence

Estranged from family and friends While racking our brains whether The world we see is truly out there, Or it never leaves our minds.

And all of a sudden In the midst of that quiet, It seems possible To live simply on this earth.

Silence is the only language god speaks.

The plain truth is we are going to die. Here I am, a teeny spec surrounded by boundless space and time, arguing with the whole of creation, shaking my fist, sputtering, growing even eloquent at times, and then-poof! I am gone. Swept off once and for all. I think that is very, very funny.

Sleeplessness is like metaphysics. Be there.

I wish I was still an atheist. Believing I was born into a harsh, uncaring cosmos – in which my existence was a random roll of the dice and I was destined to die and rot and then be gone forever – was infinitely more comforting than the truth. Because the truth is that my God is coming back. When he arrives I'll be waiting for him with a shotgun. And I'm keeping the last shell for myself.

Core concepts: Human beings all have souls. Souls are software objects. Software is not immortal.]

Having is estranged being.

The greatest question of our time is not communism versus individualism, not Europe versus America, not even the East versus the West; it is whether men can live without God. WILL DURANT

Dying goes on in the midst of life.

In a slick manifesto called Cosmos, Carl Sagan artfully packaged his own creed: "The Cosmos is all there is, or was, or ever will be.

don't believe in these things. There's London and us and the things we know.

Why was this bloody world created?" "As a sewer for the stars," a voice in front of him said. "Alternatively to know God and to glorify Him forever." " [...] The two answers are not, of course, necessarily alternative.

Maybe we spend most of our decades being someone else, avoiding ourselves, maybe a man is only himself, his true self, for a few days in his entire life.

All he ever knew of her was who he saw every day. All I am is who I am every day. All anyone is to anyone is a series of days.

I am transcribing a book that I have, in a sense, not yet written, and in another sense, have always written, and in another sense, am currently writing, and in another sense, am always writing, and in another sense, will never write.

You came here, your parents and their parents and their parents, and you always seem to have just arrived and yet never seem to have actually arrived.

I had forgotten: this is what it feels like to live in time. The lurching forward, the sensation of falling of a cliff into darkness, and then landing abruptly, surprised, confused, and then starting the whole process again in the next moment, doing that over and over again, falling into each instant of time and then climbing back up only to repeat the process.

Existence doesn't have more meaning in one direction than it does in any other.

She says that is exactly what she's crying about. That everything is all right. That the world isn't ending. That we'll never tell each other how we really feel because everything is okay. Okay enough to just sit around, being okay. Okay enough that we forget we don't have long, that it's late, late in this universe, and at some point in the future, it's not going to be okay.

You forget that your life is a short window, that you are stuck in the present, forget how your life is still here, waiting for you, wondering where you are, going on without you. You forget that people know who you are, think about you, might even be happy to see you

Everyone is a recording to everyone else, a memory, a past transcript embedded in air or water or sound or light. No matter how close they are, they are not here. What they said, when they said it, it is not now.

A life is about twenty-five thousand days, and a finding occurs about once every twenty-five thousand days. In other news, once in a lifetime.

I can see how I am always in perpetual motion through time, how I can never stop, obsessed with the past, projecting myself into the future, clutching at and always failing to grasp the wisp of now.