The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life.
The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life.
The dream frequently has the profoundest meaning in places where it seems most absurd.
The best poems are probably those in which the poet’s effort to find a rhyme is unconscious, and in which both thoughts have from the beginning exercised a mutual influence in the selection of their verbal expressions.
So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality - the grass would be only rustling in the wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds.
‘I could tell you my adventures - beginning from this morning,’ said Alice a little timidly; 'but it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.’
I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!
There is a window into your past; all you have to do is open it.
And there was evening, and there was morning - the eighth day.
What if fiction is better than reality? What if throughout our lives we try to achieve this wonder that we’ve read about or seen in movies, yet the catch is, that’s the only place it exists. What if we strive for the impossible and instead of landing in space, we land passed out on our friend’s couch wondering what went wrong. Maybe there aren’t true ‘happy endings’ in real life. Maybe those are best reserved for fiction.
Walking, you leave an indentation in the ever mutable sand. This is similar to walking elsewhere, although after every step, there is no ‘footprint’ remaining, but rather, an unrecognizable oval hole where your foot departed from the sandy surface. When I noticed this, at first I was tempted to simply walk with a harder step in an attempt to make an individualized, larger hole than the numerous surrounding my own. Unfortunately, this attempt was to no avail, as the harder I stepped, the more sand that filled with hole, making it very similar, nearly identical, to the other holes. It occurred to me that the only true means of individuality would be to walk sideways. I wonder what interesting parallels this may have to the way we live our lives. It’s worth a thought.
I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we’ll never know most of them. But even if we don’t have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them.
Thinking about thinking… What an irony to ponder over this Christmas (watching the third Harold and Kumar with my family… no regrets).
After having read the first section of the Perks of Being a Wallflower, having seen numerous Tumblr quotations from the work, I’ve found that only the author’s use of “we were infinite” moved me even moderately. This one line, and the fact that Emma Watson is certainly not fit for the part of Sam in the movie. Emma Watson will never be Sam.
Fatality makes us invisible.
Maybe the universe has a way of balancing things out.