Quotes About Release

My elderly priest friend Terry says, "Don't try harder—resist less.

In fact, not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and then waiting for the rat to die.

We were saying, This is hard, but not as hard as it was for you here, weighed down by the anchors of so-called reality. So go now, go, unfettered.

Don't store guilt for future use. Afra

Ease after war, death after life does greatly please'?

It's as if you've been walking against a great wind all your life, and then the wind is gone, and you can't walk.

Do you know what I think about crying? I think some people have to learn to do it. But once you learn, once you know how to really cry, there's nothing quite like it. I feel sorry for those who don't know the trick. It's like whistling or singing.

Suppose death had a heart to love and to release you, to whom would he turn this passion, would you chose a person from the crowd there. A person to suffer as you suffer.

As we move on year by year in this life, we learn that telling doesn't necessarily purge; telling something is merely a reliving, and it's a torment.

I tucked my arm under my head and started crying like a child. I was perishing from exhaustion. I was worn and miserable and I loved crying. I couldn't do anything else. I gave in to it fully. I felt that profound release of the utterly grief-stricken. I didn't give a damn who saw or heard. I cried and cried.

You don't have to take upon yourself the burden of murder or madness to be free of this place. Surly there must be other ways.

There comes a time when a house owns you and you know you have to get free of it, and go on with the rest of your life.

Nothing vanishes quite like pain—when pain does vanish, that is. Because most of the time pain never does.

I studied myself, and he released me, shaking my hair with his right hand. The casual gesture of affection coupled with his dazzling appearance-the vibrant eyes, the exquisitely proportional features-entranced me even as the trance endured by Goblin slowly wore away.

He was a man who fucked in silence. And when he climaxed, long, hard, endlessly, inside her tight body, he heard his voice in the darkness. Calling her name.

He touched her, and she came again at his touch, her mouth pulling at him. He was beyond gentleness. He shoved her back against the blanket of clothes and moved between her legs. He went in hard, fast, deep, only barely able to control himself. She wrapped her legs around his, and he reached down and pulled them higher, up around his hips, so that he was deeper still, and she was tight, clasping, milking him with the power of her climax, which was almost sweetly painful.

Dawn couldn't come soon enough. He had to get her out of his life as quickly as possible. It was becoming the most important thing—more important than breathing, living. He needed to get away from her, fast. Because he didn't want to let her go.

Sometimes, after an especially trying day, she felt an urge to burn everything she had worn.

He judged the instant and let go; he flung himself loose into the stars.

She pulled away, his grip no stronger than the strands of a spider web.

The function of music is to liberate in the soul those feelings that normally we keep locked up in the heart.

I plunged my head under the water voluntarily...the physical shock took away the pain of being.

There is a fierce joy to letting loose, to cutting yourself free from all the countless mundane threads of restraint that fix like you in your place, that tighten so gradually day by day that you do not even realize how bowed you are until you're quit of them.

Sometimes you have to fight for the past and sometimes you have to let go.