Quotes About Clarity

Hopefully you'll be able to make sense of what I can represent though still fail to understand.

Aside from recurrance, revision, and commensurate symbolic reference, echoes also reveal emptiness. Since objects always impede acoustic reflection, only empty places can create echoes of lasting clarity.

Sometimes how you talk is all you got. Even if your talk is wrong.

I looked at my hands. I was holding onto the steering wheel so tightly, all my knuckles where shiny points of white, and my blinker was on, CLICK-click CLICK-click CLICK-click, so certain, so plain, so clear, and yet for all its mechanical conviction, blinking me in the wrong direction.

Maturity, one discovers, has everything to do with the acceptance of 'not knowing'. Of course, not knowing hardly prevents the approaching chaos.

Kept for that moment when I'm certain nothing's left.

Find your own words; I have no more; or plenty more but why? and all to tell—what?

Perhaps when I'm finished I'll remember what I'd hoped to say in the first place.

and I want something else. I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap. Probably not even real.

But he does seem to have leveled out, not exactly achieving some sublime moment of clarity but at least attaining a certain degree of self-control.

You know this is still the simple answer. I guess the complicated one I don't feel like getting into.

When the answers arrive the questions are already lost.

Strange how clarity can come at such a time and place, so unexpectedly, so out of the blue, though who's firing the bolt?

I'm seeing now, not remembering but something else . . .

for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.

It's impeccable how brutal the truth can be at times. You can only admire it. Usually, we walk around constantly believing ourselves. I'm okay, we say. I'm alright. But sometimes the truth arrives on you, and you can't get it off. That's when you realize that sometimes it isn't even an answer - it's a question. Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.

There are hundreds of thoughts per every word spoken, and that's if they're spoken at all.

He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.

When I recollect her, I see a long list of colors, but it's the three in which I saw her in the flesh that resonate the most. Sometimes I manage to float far above those three moments. I hang suspended, until a septic truth bleeds toward clarity. That's when I see them formulate: THE COLORS RED: [rectangle] WHITE: [circle] BLACK: [swastika] They fall on top of each other. The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.

I stood there and stared, into the sky and at the city around me. I stood, hands at my side, and I saw what had happened to me and who I was and the way things would always be for me. Truth. There was no more wishing, or wondering. I knew who I was, and what I would always do. I believed it, as my teeth touched and my eyes were overrun.

I prefer to remain unenlightened, to better appreciate the dark.

It feels nice to emerge from the lies.

But sometimes the truth arrives on you, and you can't get it off. That's when you realize that sometimes it isn't even an answer--it's a question.