Quotes About Reflection

Death isn't a curse. It's the shadow that gives life its form, and that shadow's whispering to me now.

Knowing that soon the day would cleave in two, forever creating the before and the after of my life.

it wasn't good to dwell on maybes. Maybes could be twisted into things that never really existed. For

Mary E. Pearson

I gave you a chance. I gave you every chance.

Write it down, he had told me. Write down every word one you get there, Before the truth is forgotten And now we do, at least the parts we remember.

there were a hundred ways to fall in love. Maybe there were a hundred ways to find and give forgiveness too. I think I had already found a few of them.

Tell me a middle, Kazi~

Kazimyrah, I would sometimes whisper to myself as I slunk away with a meal hidden beneath my coat, because there were days even I forgot who I had once been.

Write it down, before you forget. And each day we do. But we can only write about Now. Before is already gone, except for the nightmares.

When you are on the lowest rung of society, you are a comforting reminder to those just a bit above you that life could always be worse, that they are not you.

The queen once told me there were a hundred ways to fall in love. Maybe there were a hundred ways to find and give forgiveness too. I think I had already found a few.

Maybe I finally understood that history wasn't just written on walls and in books but made in a thousand daily decisions, and some of them went wrong, some went right, and some decisions just had to be made because time was running out. Waiting for someone else to write your history was no way to live. Sometimes it was only a certain way to die.

He and the Cat looked at each other across that impassable barrier of silence which had been set between man and beast from the creation of the world.

He looked gloomily out of the misty window, opaque with the breath of himself and an elderly Indian officer, who was his only companion, and watched the fleeting landscape, which had a certain phantom-like appearance in its shroud of snow. He wrapped himself in the vast folds of his railway rug, with a peevish shiver, and felt inclined to quarrel with the destiny which compelled him to travel by an early train upon a pitiless winter's day.

And now the senna and camomile were to flavour all her life. She was no longer to enjoy that mystical double existence, those delicious glimpses of dreamland, which made up for all the dulness of the common world that surrounded her.

George fell back immediately. He took no more interest in any lady's picture than in all the other wearinesses of this troublesome world. He fell back, and leaning his forehead against the window-panes, looked out at the night.

As he sat in the deep embrasure of a mullioned window, talking to my lady, his mind wandered away to shady Figtree Court, and he thought of poor George Talboys smoking his solitary cigar in the room with the birds and canaries.

Who has not been, or is not to be mad in some lonely hour of life? Who is quite safe from the trembling of the balance?

Meditation leads you to your spiritual information, and takes you on a journey of getting to know yourself and your creations.

I was always observing. Even while talking, living, going through every motion, I was watching myself and the situation. That's a writer. Always observing.

It's not when you press the shutter, but why you press the shutter.

One loses many laughs by not laughing at oneself.

Be glad that once you did experience that magic. It's part of who you are now, and you're richer for it.