Quotes About Time

Birth, coupling, death. The more she thinks about it, the more it seems that that is all there is: a wheel turning over and over, moving so fast that sometimes you cannot even make out the spokes. It is a wonder there is any room for poetry.

It was one of those perfect New York October afternoons, when the explosion of oranges and yellows against the bright blue sky makes you feel like your life is passing through your fingers, that you've felt this autumn-feeling before and you'll probably get to feel it again, but one day you won't anymore, because you'll be dead.

most art mistakes itself for the universal when it is momentary

Time in West Africa is not a linear measurement. It can be free-flowing or motionless, but it is never a constant. Time in Africa is personalized, divided and defined on an individual basis.

And only further into relationships when you knew the person better, and their place in your life became clear, if there was love, if there was hate, if there was deepness of any kind, only then did you understand that the embers of meaning had been present all along and glowing since that first moment you laid eyes on them. As if you already knew them before you came to know them. As if some rift had bent time.

Tattooing was unto itself its very own art form, old as the hills and stranger than time. Whether in rich, far-flung resorts or condemned cottages, glamorous prestige or ragged poverty, human hearts and souls were variable and would always require painting.

Here I am and there is my body dancing on glass In accident time where there are no accidents You have no choice the choice comes after

I dreamt I went to the doctor's and she gave me eight minutes to live-I'd been sitting in the fucking waiting room half an hour.

She ceases to continue with the day do day farce of getting through the next few hours in an attempt to ward off the fact that she doesn't know how to get through the next forty years.

I believe in anniversaries, that a mood can be repeated even if the event that caused it is trivial or forgotten. In this case, it's neither.

Built to be lonely to love the absent. Find me Free me from this corrosive doubt futile despair horror in repose. I can fill my space fill my time but nothing can fill this void in my heart.

Some nights, I wake up knowing he is anxious. He is across the world in another woman's arms and the years have spread us like dandelion seeds, sanding down the edges of our jigsaw parts that used to only fit each other

Forget the past and live the present hour.

The Bible never moves ahead as it reads only the past!

Even if spirits exist (watching us, haunting us, inhabiting alternate universes that subvert time), granting them entrance through the spaces in our minds, or the structure of our homes, and any other doors we might construct, can only result in man's utter destruction.

In our dreams we are always young.

Perfect Timing" The night I fell in love with you I lost my watch: stripping off at the sea's edge, it fell into the dark as I swam out into a night thick with stars, with fisherman calling from one lit boat to another of their catches and harbours, leaving for the dawn. Imagine it now, plunged deep in cool sand, still hidden years later, grains ticking over it one by one— as your hands slide into me and I move to their pulse.

The fastest way to revise a piece of work is to send it, late at night, to someone whose opinion you fear. Then rewrite it, praying you'll finish in time to send a new version by morning.

I used to be twenty. Then I was twenty-one, twenty-two, and so on. And then I became a mother and could no longer even distinguish the difference between twenty-one and twenty-two or the difference between thirty-eight and thirty-nine.

I'd never have guessed which people I'd still know by now.

In a hundred and fifty years no one alive will ever have known me. Being forgotten like that, entering that great and ongoing blank, seems more like death than death. ?

In my experience nursing is waiting. The mother becomes the background against which the baby lives, becomes time. I used to exist against the continuity of time. Then I became the baby's continuity, a background of ongoing time for him to live against. I was the warmth and milk that was always there for him, the agent of comfort that was always there for him. My body, my life, became the landscape of my son's life. I am no longer merely a thing living in the world; I am a world.

I tend to forget that my measurement of time is designed to distract me from what's really happening.

I reread my favorite books to make sure they're still perfect, but rereading them wears away at their perfection.