You can always be a better person, a better version of you, focus on that you do that makes you feel good, cultivate activities that make you feel in peace and make them part of your daily life.
The moment you meet your SoulMate is the ultimate synchronicity. Lucky is the person who recognizes in that very moment the intersection of the perfect time, perfect place and perfect person.
To walk alone through life is a challenge; it sometime means adrenaline and a path full of surprises, but being with somebody means a lot more. And being with the right person means everything.
He thought: that's certainly how it starts. One day a person puts his legs up on a bench, then night comes and he falls asleep. That's how it happens that one fine day a person joins the tramps and turns into one of them.
I don't care about faces, personalities or clothes . . . I only care about the soul.
Everyone is always doing as well as they can within their personal limitations, their personal history, what they know and don't know and what they're feeling in that moment. If they could make a healthier decision, they would. This includes you.
The true story of every person in this world is not the story you see, the external story. The true story of each person is the journey of his or her heart.
A person without her or his own truth ain't a person at all, Ida said. Anybody who tells you different—is a jackass, and no longer deserves to be called human being.
Religion is about integration, about successfully bringing the selfish ego into line with the centre of the personality where God exists, as a divine spark, in every human being. Religion is about helping man to live in harmony with his true self and...
Sometimes to make no move is to make the wrong move. That’s how I fell in love with a statue. We just sat still and I formed a connection.
I am the parking garage of love, but sadly I’m empty at the moment. It’s cheaper if you pay for a whole week, rather than by the hour.
The two squirrels quarreled like lovers, and it moved me so much I made both into one toupee. I’m not bald, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wear it. I’m a romantic.
I only had one drink. The problem was, my vodka glass could hold one gallon. I thought I was in love, but I was really intoxicated.
Even though my voice is invisible, my words aren’t dead and ghostlike. My “I love you” is alive and well.
My flashlight’s not working. I don’t know if the batteries are dead, but my mother-in-law sure as hell isn’t. When she dies, my love can live.
He lies on the couch all day watching television. I admire his classic American ambition. He’s probably a better lover than me.
Love is a skeleton wrapped in a bacon blanket. It’s sizzling and hot and tasty and I’d love to have some right now with a large cup of coffee.
I’m a murderer. I killed the conversation. She said she loved me, and I said, “If you love me, wait until you meet my clone!
I made a Lindsey Sandwich out of two Jennifers and a Jessica. Then I ate it like I make love—alone, in the corner, with a box of tissues and lots of tears.
I have the dance moves of a mustache, and a singing voice that sounds like a beard on the inside of my cheeks. Carry my love like karaoke in your pocket.
I’m divorced, so I know what it takes to make a marriage work. My love is like an empty box of desert. Just add water.
