Quotes About Impermanence

The only permanence was fluid. Change was all that mattered.

One can contemplate the Emperor and his powers comfortably if one remembers that all things are finite

If you must label the absolute, use its proper name: Temporary.

If you must label the absolute, use its proper name: Temporary. —THE STOLEN JOURNALS

all things/cells/beings are impermanent . . . strive for flow-permanence within. . .

Moreover, we forget things every day, so in a sense we are constantly dissolving into nothingness.

It occurs to me that I really can't remember your face in any precise detail. Only the way you walked away through the tables in the café, your figure, your dress, that I still see.

You see, I have only such a fugitive awareness of things around me that I always feel they were once real and are now fleeting away.

Tinere?ea ve?nic? este imposibil?,chiar dac? n-ar exista alt obstacol,introspec?ia o face cu neputin??

Our lives feel like these epochs, but really, we are dust in the wind.

All my ideas have blown away with the wind.

What is this world? A mere curl of smoke for the wind to scatter.

The wind is a very difficult sound to get. It's always changing.

Webs are made mostly of spaces. They break easily. They barely exist. They belong to the category of half-things: mist, smoke, shrouds, ghosts, membranes, retinas or rags; and they quickly fill up with un-things: old legs and wings and heads and hollow abdomens and body bags of wasps.

Playwrights have texts, composers have scores, painters and sculptors have the residue of those activities, and dance is traditionally an ephemeral, effervescent, here-today-gone-tomorrow kind of thing.

The perfection in theater is that it's over the second it's done.

I like the ephemeral thing about theatre, every performance is like a ghost - it's there and then it's gone.

We move through each other's lives like ghosts, leaving behind haunting memories of people who never existed.

Nothing lasts, even this awesome floaty feeling. We all reach for whatever we think is going to dull the pain, and sometimes we don't even want whatever it is, we just want to not be miserable, you know?

It's not that we have to leave this life one day, it's how many things we have to leave all at once: holding hands, hotel rooms, wine, summertime, drunkenness, and the physics of falling leaves, clothing, myrrh, perfumed hair, flirting friends, two strangers' glance; the reflection of the moon, with words like, 'Soon' ... 'do you want me?' ... '...to lie enlaced' ... 'and sleep entwined' thinking ahead, with thoughts behind...?' Ô, Why! Why can't we leave this life slowly?

Every artist wants his work to be permanent. But what is The Aswan Dam covered some of the greatest art in the world. Venice is sinking. Great books and pictures were lost in the Florence floods. In the meantime we still enjoy butterflies.

Just like we age fast, so does the future come.

The more humans have mastered the world, the more it has taken on the taint of our own mortality. The world no longer seems deathless.

I close my eyes and listen to the roar and clatter of the world as it rushes by. We are rushing too. The wind is whipping past us. We are so brief. A one-day dandelion. A seedpod skittering across the ice. We are a feather falling from the wing of a bird. I don't know why it is given to us to be so mortal and to feel so much. It is a cruel trick, and glorious.