Quotes About Self

What I was is not what I am. Two men, identical faces, but different eyes. In what they have seen, in what they reflect upon the world.

We are nothing but our own needs. She but showed each of us the face we hide from ourselves and everyone else. She shamed us by exposing our truths.

How perfect is running? This grand delusion of flight? Away from our demons, ever away, until even the self sobs loose, spins lost in our wake. Perfect, oh yes. And a thing to despise. No distance can win an escape; no speed can outrun this self and all its host of troubles. It's only the sweet exhaustion that follows that we so cherish. An exhaustion so pure it is as close to dying as we can get without actually doing so.

we fight every battle with our imaginations: the battles within, the battles in the world beyond. This is the truth of command, and a warrior must learn command, of oneself and of others. It

Language was war, vaster than any host of swords, spears and sorcery. The self waging battle against everyone else. Borders enacted, defended, sallies and breaches, fields of corpses rotting like tumbled fruit. Words ever seeking allies, ever seeking iconic verisimilitude in the heaving press.

Look not to our unknown benefactor for salvation. This is humanity's war upon itself and the only salvation possible must be found in the eyes of our brother, our sister, our neighbor. Do find the courage, my beloved friend, to meet that gaze.

Choices fall away, without you even noticing, until there are very few left, and you realize that you are nothing but what you are.

Self-avowed destinies wear a thousand masks and not one of them truly fits—" "How can they, Hull Beddict, when they're modelled on perfection?

Kruppe has always considered you mere aspects of himself, a half-dozen Hungers among many, as it were. Yet, for all your needs, you would urge what of your master? That he turn back from his flight, of course. That one's own skull is too worthy a chamber for deception to reign—and yet Kruppe assures you from long experience that all deceit is born in the mind and there it is nurtured while virtues starve.

Drunken oblivion was, each time, a small, temporary death. Hood walked where the self once stood, and the wake of the god's passage sickened mortal flesh afterwards.

is it not true that, from one year to the next, we each ourselves are capable of changes so fundamental that our present selves can in no reasonable way be considered equal to our past selves? If the rule does not apply even within our own individual lives, how can one dare hope to believe that it pertains collectively?

The conquerors always assumed that what they conquered was identity. But the truth was, identity could only be killed from within, and even that gesture was but a chimera.

Yet identities persisted. On a personal level. Freedom was little more than a tattered net, draped over a host of minor, self-imposed bindings. Its stripping away changed little, except, perhaps, the comforting delusion of the ideal. Mind bound to self, self to flesh, flesh to bone. As the Errant wills, we are a latticework of cages, and whatever flutters within knows but one freedom, and that is death.

Drunken oblivion was, each time, a small, temporary death. Hood walked where the self once stood, and the wake of the god's passage sickened mortal flesh afterwards.

It is not the same. Nothing ever is, beginning with ourselves.

Intelligence was incomplete—perhaps it always would be—it was flawed. It could not distinguish its own lies from its own truths. Upon the scale of the self, they often weighed the same. Mistakes and malice were arguments of intent alone, not effect.

Such is the vastness of his genius that he can outwit even himself.

how much a person's identity depends on what role he is playing.

We may never say, "I was looking for God, and I found him." We may only ever testify, "I was not looking for any God other than myself—and he found me." You did not work it out. Our seeking never does. He sought you out and he saved your soul, and this is the testimony we all share.

We are the ones that we've been waiting for. — ALICE WALKER

In the end, he told himself some days, there is only what is done and what is not done. That is a life, that is what remains behind... It did not matter what sort of men or women they had been in life... his inner self would be lost to time, as he himself would be lost.

All of us every single year, we're a different person. I don't think we're the same person all our lives.

always remember your unique, just like everone else

I have an existential map; it has 'you are here' written all over it.