Perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.
While searching for justice, I learned that no matter what wrong people do, God doesn’t come out of the skies to perish them, lightning doesn’t strike them dead and earth doesn’t open to bury their sinful souls. The strong and clever get to enjoy the bounties of the heaven they create for themselves and the weaker will always spend their lives resenting their hell and waiting for justice to serve its purpose. Isbah Z
I have come to believe that love happens. And when it does, it gets you whether you want it or not, like it or not. It almost seems as if it gives you a high, an energy that makes you think that whatever you have thought for yourself is right, what you have imagined will lead you to where we have dreamed to be one day. When love grows on you, it makes you believe that boundaries don’t exist, 'You and I' becomes 'Us', and that makes you sacrifice things that you never thought you were capable of living without, to the point that it starts reflecting in your identity. It’s all very surreal really. But what do you do when you realize your short comings as a couple? What do you do when all that emotional drama and ecstasy doesn’t last and all the magic fades away? The politically correct answer would be to pretend to ignore it. Because we are raised to keep trying to work things out. Even when you know you are jumping into the fire, you are obligated to try. So, most of the
Anger I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad: and I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle, to accept the warming rays of the sun, and to report them, whenever, and if ever, they happen to strike me. E. B. White (1899–1985), U.S. author, editor. Interview in Writers at Work (Eighth Series, ed. by George Plimpton, 1988). +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Passion Passions spin the plot: We are betrayed by what is false within. George Meredith (1828–1909), English author. Modern Love, Sonnet 43 (1862). +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Aesthetics I hate that aesthetic game of the eye and the mind, played by these connoisseurs, these mandarins who “appreciate” beauty. What is beauty, anyway? There’s no such thing. I never “appreciate,” any more than I “like.” I love or I hate. Pablo Picasso (1881–1973), Spanish artist. Quoted in: Françoise Gilot and Carlton Lake, Life with Picasso, pt
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