Inspirational quotes with creases.
Like ThisIf anyone asks youhow the perfect satisfactionof all our sexual wantingwill look, lift your faceand say,Like this.When someone mentions the gracefulnessof the nightsky, climb up on the roofand dance and say,Like this.If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,or what "God’s fragrance" means,lean your head toward him or her.Keep your face there close.Like this.When someone quotes the old poetic imageabout clouds gradually uncovering the moon,slowly loosen knot by knot the stringsof your robe.Like this.If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,don’t try to explain the miracle.Kiss me on the lips.Like this. Like this.When someone asks what it meansto "die for love," pointhere.If someone asks how tall I am, frownand measure with your fingers the spacebetween the creases on your forehead.This tall.The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.When someone doesn’t believe that,walk back into my house.Like this.When lovers moan,they’re telling our story.Like this.I am a sky where spirits live.Stare into this deepening blue,while the breeze says a secret.Like this.When someone asks what there is to do,light the candle in his hand.Like this.How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?Huuuuu.How did Jacob’s sight return?Huuuu.A little wind cleans the eyes.Like this.When Shams comes back from Tabriz,he’ll put just his head around the edgeof the door to surprise us Like this.
In the years that I could not see him, I came to know my father through the medium of photography. My perceptions of him were forged on black-and-white squares that stole an instant out of history and immortalized it between the pages of a family album. When I summoned up the image of the man, it came to me frozen, black-bordered, flat. He stood pale above the creases of his uniform, framed in the foamy wake of some ship, drops of sunlight caught in the buttons on his jacket. He winked at me from the liberty ports of countless exotic places. In an atrocious hand he scrawled stilted, affectionate words to the stranger that bore his name and his features, telling of adventures far away, misbehavings under suns hotter than that which shone over the Greater German Reich.
Spare parts lay scattered, every turn wrought with twisted dread, all over the ground, the rooftops, and they were still. Some moving, twitching, enough to almost see. Half cracked and shattered, but still visible and eerie, smiles spread wide and thin, teeth decayed and not, paralleled by hollowed, some missing or in other places, eyes of shades green and blue and some brown with red, but no white, just color portrayed, even if it may be dampened in every way. The beauty in the frivolity, the polished shining gears and cracked glass illuminated so brightly, create a portrait of terror and wonder, significance of a different sort, that only human eyes can see and human minds can feel, but all this is something only dreams, the ethereal concepts that fuse and mince chaos and order into a more paradoxical state, can create and fathom and fashion and make. And yet, doubts upon anxious contradictions, my fingers can feel the brokenness of what can be witnessed, an abyss within a void where deeper within the still lies a glow, a half pulse of a flutter, a vein of mimicry of the reverse of all I see, with concave eyes lost in the magnitude of image whole. Massive and monumental, my feet dragged behind me, cuts in the dirt and spiraling tracks. And then I awoke, half my world disappeared. So much empty within the whole, holes of sizes big and small and all between, the loss of, what it was to be called, my dream. And then my life ended, the holes and tears and cracks complete, empty eyes can still see so clearly, the nothingness that everything has become, shadow and matte a combination of dark on black, in the nothingness that all has become, it is all complete in a way opposite of what I know, a world different in every way and stretch I see, vision upon view of different and strange, only when empty eyes, longing for purpose dreading its meaning, gaze upon their own reflection will the last piece fall into place, a round puzzle of pieces triangular and square, the completeness in the nothingness can be seen, mind flooded with wonder, envisioning the antonym of a dream, and what, in this new beginning, this all could mean. With a blink it all changes, incomplete images appear, holes are wide and seen because you are back now, between death and dream, interwoven as an integral part of this necessary in between seam, and when you touch, worry creases the brow, their faces, half real and the other untouchable, your hand passes through their skin, penetration of the most intimate sort, holding their hearts as if for sport. The warmth, the beating, the crimson piercing blood, so beautiful, the engine that we run, pumping and pumping only to cause the most dreaded flood. Now I drown, and I see you drown too. Together, we are, for split seconds few, we are torn apart and disappear in this vast blood red hue.
But the memories that hang heaviest are the easiest to recall. They hold in their creases the ability to change one's life, organically, forever. Even when you shake them out, they've left permanent wrinkles in the fabric of your soul.
I loved you with texture. You loved with a softness. Texture brought detail, softness brought folds. Folds brought creases and creases had secrets.
I took his razor from the shower floor, bits of his black hair still caked between the blades. I took his toothbrush from the sink counter and sucked on the bristles, trying to find the taste of him, but there was only the flavor of watery mint toothpaste....I pulled the sheets off the bed with the idea that I could gather up the imprint of him and save it. I thought, I can unfurl the sheets on our old bed at home. I can lie in the creases formed by his body. I can sleep with him again.
It's strange to see people you don't know well in the morning, with sleepy eyes and pillow creases in their cheeks
She pulls up to the drive wayParks the car, Gets Out, Walks up to the door, And embraces me with an iron holdShe is a friend and hugs me the same way she used to, Her hands sliding into their old creases along my bodyI let her into the house, knowing I could never refuseAs she walks through my doors, she reminds me why she stands in my living roomShe tells me that she has returned because of my actions I didn’t learn from the last timeIts my faultI should have been better, she berates meI should have let people in, she tells meI should not have gotten mad, she shares with meI should not have locked myself away, she lets me knowI silently bear all the responsibility for her returnAs we start to get deep into conversation, I realize she has brought her bagsSuitcase after suitcase lets me know she is here to stayShe tells me she will run my life from now onShe will make my scheduleShe will direct how I actShe has come to my doors, breached my walls, destroyed my defenses, and announced her ownership.Crownless in my own kingdomI am defeated.This old friend is called Loneliness
All's well that ends well.''Assuming there's an end somewhere,' Aomame said.Tamaru formed some short creases near his mouth that were faintly reminiscent of a smile. 'There has to be an end somewhere. It's just that nothing's labeled "This is the end." Is the top rung of a ladder labeled "This is the last rung. Please don't step higher than this'?"Aomame shook her head.'It's the same thing,' Tamaru said.Aomame said, 'If you use common sense and keep your eyes open, it becomes clear enough where the end is.'Tamaru nodded. 'And even if it doesn't' -- he made a falling gesture with his finger -- 'the end is right there.
Beautiful day out there,” I said, perching on the stool and crossing my legs. “It’s autumn, Sunday, great weather, and crowded everywhere you go. Relaxing indoors like this is the best thing you can do on such a nice day. It’s exhausting to get into those crowds. And the air is bad. I mostly do laundry on Sundays—wash the stuff in the morning, hang it out on the roof of my dorm, take it in before the sun goes down, do a good job of ironing it. I don’t mind ironing at all. There’s a special satisfaction in making wrinkled things smooth. And I’m pretty good at it, too. Of course, I was lousy at it at first. I put creases in everything. After a month of practice, though, I knew what I was doing. So Sunday is my day for laundry and ironing. I couldn’t do it today, of course. Too bad: wasted a perfect laundry day.
You don't even know me," I said."And whose fault is that?""Cinderella's"Two creases formed between Jake's eyebrows."Cinderella's?""Yeah, Cinderella screwed me over." Without any more explanation, I got into my car, pulled the door closed, and fired up the engine.
If you could travel anywhere in the US for a vacation, where would you go?"He reached up with his free hand and rubbed his jaw, two creases forming between his eyebrows. She wanted to take over for him, brush her fingers across his whiskers, make him groan the way she had earlier. But she decided to behave herself.For now."I've always wanted to go to Yellowstone," he said. "See all the wildlife. Maybe go fishing."...."I'd pick a beach, Florida or California. Where I could be in my bikini more than not, rarely wear shoes, and wake up to the sound of the ocean.""Well, if you're gonna be wearing a bikini, I'm switching to a beach vacation with you."...."Okay, so foreign vacation," she said, snuggling against him. "Then where would you go?"...."Let's just cut to the chase and say wherever you'd go.
theres a heavy silence between usit settles in the creases on your jacketand seeps into the fur on my hood.i know your middle name andi know your birthday and i know you look more like your dadbut you wish you looked like your mom.i watch your back and for the first time in my lifeim genuinely terrified."whats my birthday?" i askand you dont look at me because you never doyou never look me in the eyeyou never say my nameand god its hitting me.its hitting me that maybemaybe it was all for nothingi know you inside and outi know you better than i know myselfand maybe thats all for nothing."it’s in december, right?" you askbut its not a question andif i were anyone else if i werent love-sickif i wasnt absolutelyfucking blinded by youi would punch you in the fucking mouth.my birthday is may fifth.
I had a bizarre rapport with this mirror and spent a lot of time gazing into the glass to see who was there. Sometimes it looked like me. At other times, I could see someone similar but different in the reflection. A few times, I caught the switch in mid-stare, my expression re-forming like melting rubber, the creases and features of my face softening or hardening until the mutation was complete. Jekyll to Hyde, or Hyde to Jekyll. I felt my inner core change at the same time. I would feel more confident or less confident; mature or childlike; freezing cold or sticky hot, a state that would drive Mum mad as I escaped to the bathroom where I would remain for two hours scrubbing my skin until it was raw. The change was triggered by different emotions: on hearing a particular piece of music; the sight of my father, the smell of his brand of aftershave. I would pick up a book with the certainty that I had not read it before and hear the words as I read them like an echo inside my head. Like Alice in the Lewis Carroll story, I slipped into the depths of the looking glass and couldn’t be sure if it was me standing there or an impostor, a lookalike.I felt fully awake most of the time, but sometimes while I was awake it felt as if I were dreaming. In this dream state I didn’t feel like me, the real me. I felt numb. My fingers prickled. My eyes in the mirror’s reflection were glazed like the eyes of a mannequin in a shop window, my colour, my shape, but without light or focus. These changes were described by Dr Purvis as mood swings and by Mother as floods, but I knew better. All teenagers are moody when it suits them. My Switches could take place when I was alone, transforming me from a bright sixteen-year-old doing her homework into a sobbing child curled on the bed staring at the wall. The weeping fit would pass and I would drag myself back to the mirror expecting to see a child version of myself. ‘Who are you?’ I’d ask. I could hear the words; it sounded like me but it wasn’t me. I’d watch my lips moving and say it again, ‘Who are you?
You know what I remember most vividly from that hospital? There were creases in the pillowcase. "I was in pain when they brought me in. They'd bandaged me up before transporting me, but they hand't had anything to deaden that kind of pain. So I wasn't clear in my head. I don't remember who was holding the stretcher, anything like that. "But when they lifted me up, and I looked at the cot I'd be transferred to, even as they tipped me onto it, I noticed the creases in the pillowcase, and it was everything I could do not to cry. You get used to things being dusty and gritty and oily, you really do, but then, when there's something clean, something that's been folded carefully, and unfolded carefully and it's there for your head, it's like your heart, it's like I don't know, I can't describe it.
Then a calm fell upon him. The gushing began from all sorts of places, all over his body. He heard pleasurable little giggles on the outer edges of his mind, in the dark creases behind his thoughts. He felt good, better than he’d felt in years. As if he were inside a huge embrace. And he felt as if he had finally reached the right place, his home, his motherland.
A woman steps out of the back door after an hour of him sitting. Younger than either of us, blonde with a tinge of gray at her temples, the light creases of age in the corners of her eyes, beautiful in the untouchable way of mothers who are our exemplars for what we will admire in women when we come of age.
No empty words and gestures, but hands filled with hands, hands pointing the way, hands tracing new lines as age slowly creases its course from the corners of my eyes.
I went closer this time and touched him. He let out a deafening shriek, as if something had pierced into his heart. I held his hand and sat there, admiring the intricate network of life on them. The creases and folds in his body were testament to the cruelty that he had been subjected to in this world. The watery eyes screamed of the pain, the agonising wait to leave this godforsaken place forever, that had given him nothing but pleadings for mercy.
As our body journeys through life, and life journeys on our body….life will leave marks on us too. From the creases of our wrinkles to the birthmarks on our bodies to the tattoos we decide to place.
I know who you are,” Jack whispers. “I’ve always known you.” His hands glide up my arms, from the angles of my wrists to the creases of my elbows. He presses his mouth to my left ear—I shiver from his breath. “You’re a force to be reckoned with.
But first I had to get through the ironing. It took a lot of patience. I had none. It took forever, and then I had to press the whole shirt again to get out the creases I’d pressed into it.
Traigh came to help her dismount, a broad smile making creases around his eyes. “I fear ye missed our summer, Joie.” Her brow drew in with confusion. “But it is summer, Traigh,” she told him. “Aye, it might well be summer elsewhere in the world, but here, it only last three days. We had our summer last week.
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