There can be no rebirth without a dark night of the soul, a total annihilation of all that you believed in and thought that you were.
We can judge our progress by the courage of our questions and the depth of our answers, our willingness to embrace what is true rather than what feels good.
Sometimes we just have to cut off the dead branches in our life. Sometimes that’s the only way we can keep the tree alive. It’s hard and it hurts, but it’s what’s best.
You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place. Like you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.
Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer.
Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine. (via spitswap)
I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.
I miss perverts in the real world, I miss seeing them. They’re all just online now.
I feel so intensely the delights of shutting oneself up in a little world of one’s own, with pictures and music and everything beautiful.
All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that’s the tragedy of living.
Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist.
Your real nature is one perfect, free, and actionless consciousness, the all-pervading, unattached to anything, desireless, at peace. It appears through illusion as the world. Knowing that all this is an illusion, one becomes free from desire, pure receptivity and at peace, as if nothing existed.
Ashtavakra Gita (via nirvikalpa)
Suddenly you’re ripped into being alive. And life is pain, and life is suffering, and life is horror, but my god you’re alive and it’s spectacular.
Inside, we are ageless and when we talk to ourselves, it’s the same age of the person we were talking to when we were little. It’s the body that is changing around that ageless centre.
The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.. ― John Milton, Paradise Lost