Quotes About Reality

Nothing matters more than what happens in our minds," Trillian said. "Your experiences in what you consider your real life in the real world only exist in your mind and in the minds of others. The mind is everything. And dreams are the playground of the mind.

The truth can be devastating. We spend much of our lives protecting ourselves from it and shielding others as well. We use lies to take the edge off life. We dream of a better tomorrow. We hide from our regrets and inadequacies. We try to exaggerate the good and downplay the bad. We even manage to hide from the inescapable reality that sooner or later we and everyone we love is going to die.

But comes a time for a woman when she stops thinking of herself as a girl, as a person of possibilities. She starts looking at the plain facts of herself. Her body that's become the body that she has and her habits becoming the habits that she's written in stone. Her "haves" being the ones she's got and maybe not getting anymore.

While I slept you stood in the colorful night market with pyramids of bright fruit piled high Where those who loved you, rushing back to their intimate stalls, held out pears that had been dreamed for you And would the dream pear not come gladly once it knew this was you wanting to take it in? The dream pear chose reality, wanting your mouth as I did - Honestly, it was happy to be bitten.

learn pretty damn fast that everything else is smoke and mirrors. Fame. Money. Success. You realize that life is fleeting and family's what it's all about. It's the only thing that matters.

In spite of everything, he still felt wonderful, like I was embracing a mountain. But I now knew that as solid as he seemed, he was no mountain.

I am what I am. Like the truth is what it is. It's not good or bad, it just is. The truth is neutral. We're the ones who decide if something is good or bad.

But... what about us? What about the past? she asks blankly. The past isn't real. it's just a dream, I say. Don't mention the past.

Adjust my dreams for me.

What keeps me interested--and it always does--is how can she be a bad actress on film but a good one in reality?

I had dreamed of something so different from what reality was now offering up, but that dream had been a blind man's vision. That dream was a miracle. The morning was fading. And I remembered yet again that I was a tourist here.

There is no time for the innocent.

Why was I holding on to something that would never be mine? (But isn't that what people do?)

How do I know you're not crazy? she asks. How do I know you're not the craziest dude I've ever met? You'll have to test me out. You have my info, she says. I'll think about it. Rain, I say. That's not your real name. Does it matter? Well, it makes me wonder what else isn't real. That's because you're a writer, she says. That's because you make things up for a living. And? And-- she shrugs--I've noticed that writers tend to worry about things like that.

Things changing, failing apart, fading, another year, a few more moves, a hard person who doesn't give a fuck, a boredom so monumental it humbles, arrangements so fleeting made by people you don't even know that it requires you to lose any sense of reality you might have once acquired, expectations so unreasonable you become superstitious about ever matching them.

This is true: the world is better off with some people gone. Our lives are not all interconnected. That theory is a crock. Some people truly do not need to be here.

Bret Easton Ellis

Dwelling over this loss while wandering down Central Park West somewhere around Seventy-sixth, Seventy-fifth, it strikes me profoundly that the world is more often than not a bad and cruel place.

El pasado no es real. Sólo es un sueño.

The book was blunt and had an honesty about it, whereas the movie was just a beautiful lie.

This is reality, and as my loathsome brother Sean would say, I have to deal with it. The

This is my reality. Everything outside of this is like some movie I once saw.

I'm having a sort of hard time paying attention because my automated teller has started speaking to me, sometimes actually leaving weird messages on the screen, in green lettering, like "Cause a Terrible Scene at Sotheby's" or "Kill the President" or "Feed Me a Stray Cat," and I was freaked out by the park bench that followed me for six blocks last Monday evening and it too spoke to me. Disintegration—I'm taking it in stride.

The real Julian Wells didn't die in a cherry-red convertible, overdosing on a highway in Joshua Tree while a choir soared over the sound track.