Quotes About Passing

The life of a person is more than the chaos of it's passing. Emotion, Ruin. This is your defeat.

The bittersweet side of appreciating life's most precious moments is the unbearable awareness that those moments are passing. — MARC PARENT, Believing It All

The bittersweet side of appreciating life's most precious moments is the unbearable awareness that those moments are passing.

I have also learned to catch the darkness early, not to allow sadness to grow into depression or let a sense of being rejected develop into a feeling of abandonment. Even in the renewed and deepened friendship, I feel the freedom to point to the little clouds and ask for help in letting them pass by.

Life becomes a spectacle and, if you happen to be an artist, you record the passing show.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

At some point during my travels, I had a slight change of focus which would end up defining the rest of my career. I began taking pictures of people. In addition to all the buildings, street signs and fire hydrants, I started photographing some of the interesting humans that passed by me on the street.

I feel like my grandparents and parents gave me a tremendous amount. And if I can pass some of that on, then I'll be very happy.

I play basketball; I actually like the triangle. It opens things up if you know how to move without the ball and know how to cut. That's the game you learn in high school and younger - pass, cut - basically the fundamentals of basketball, which makes it extremely difficult to guard.

In late 2001, I contributed a short story called 'Castaways' to an anthology called 'In Laymon's Terms,' which was a tribute to Richard Laymon, who had passed away earlier that year.

I don't belong in this world, I am merely a traveller passing through, I repudiate to silence my thought, because they fear my light.

Each thing I do, I rush through so I can do something else. In such a way do the days pass---a blend of stock car racing and the never ending building of a gothic cathedral. Through the windows of my speeding car I see all that I love falling away: books unread, jokes untold, landscapes unvisited...

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.

When my mother passed away several years ago—well, wait a minute. Actually, she didn't 'pass away.' She died. Something about that verb, 'to pass away' always sounds to me as if someone just drifted through the wallpaper. No, my mother did not pass away. She definitely died.

I was now old enough to see the day when the average teenager (Clarice didn't qualify) couldn't spot a Terminator reference. My time had clearly passed. If we'd been Eskimos, I would have crawled out onto the ice to die. First things first, though. I walked over and pushed Clarice's legs off the couch.

And if the Benetton rabbit was indicating that, then it was echoing a philosophy similar to my own: to live is a tremendous privilege, simply to experience a little of the world and to devour the skills and ideas of those who have gone before. But life is a gift on loan, and in comparison with our surroundings, even a long, full life of a hundred years is but a passing moment.

I am too insecure to crash early. I feel life will pass me by while I'm sleeping.

My father was a dark-skinned brother, but my mother was a very fair-skinned lady. From what I understand, she was Creole; we think her people originally came from New Orleans. She looked almost like a white woman, which meant she could pass - as folks used to say back then. Her hair was jet-black. She was slim and very attractive.

Death is inevitable: does it matter when it comes? When Socrates was told that the Thirty Tyrants had condemned him to death, he retorted, 'And nature, them!'. How absurd to anguish over our passing into freedom from all anguish.

To die of age is a rare, singular, and extraordinary death

Cómo es posible condenar algo fugaz?

On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air

You told me love was fickle and fleeting.

What you love, you must love all the harder because someday it will be gone.