"Take it easy, Jewels," Sebastian said, trying to sound playful, but worry was written all over his face. "Why can't you ever call me by my real name?" "Well, at least I know you're coherent- you're back to asking your heap of questions."' Concealed
Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exal...
We must assume every event has significance and contains a message that pertains to our questions...this especially applies to what we used to call bad things...the challenge is to find the silver lining in every event, no matter how negative.
What are days for? Days are where we live. They come, they wake us Time and time over. They are to be happy in: Where can we live but days? Ah, solving that question Brings the priest and the doctor In their long coats Running over the fields.
All the different religions are really like different paths leading to the same goal. So there is no question of prescribing any rigid set of principles or practices. Everyone has got the right to follow his own path and approach God in his own way.
All the different religion are erally like different paths leading to the same goal. So there is no question of prescribing any rigid set of principles or practices. Everyone has got the right to follow his own path and approach God in his own way.
If collapse is anything, it is a planetary immersion in the maelstrom of paradox. Unless we understand and honor paradox, we will end up, like all of the mainstream media on earth, asking all of the wrong questions.
Own your creativity. You are creative with the same juice that flows in all of life. The question is not whether you are creative enough but whether you will free yourself to express it.
The question is not, therefore, _whether_ a theory is grand or small, or whether it is universal/global or particular/local, but _what function_ a theory plays and _whose interest_ it serves.
What do you mean, my life is at risk?" I questioned. "From one of the other professors?" "Oh, it goes much deeper than that, Freddy," he said with a half crazed, wide eyed smile. Leaning in, he whispered, "I stole something.
I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.
His question is pretty dangerous for me to try to answer, so I don’t—it continues to hang out there like the stained underwear at a slumber party that goes unclaimed.
Rather than feeling vindicated, I felt guilty. It seemed cruel, and all my fault, somehow. My relationship with my mother had always brought into question any sense I had of myself as a good and decent person. [p. 128]
If you fall into the category of people who want to make a great use of their existence, you need to ask yourself these two questions; “what am I doing now”?; “Where is it taking me to?”.
One conversation! One simple, honest, true conversation, and all your questions would be answered, all your problems solved! Really, man, is it that difficult? Then you'd be free to fall into each other's arms and live your Happily Ever After. Why ma...
Are you saying the end of human suffering began with an amusement park?” “I’m saying the end of human suffering is a myth.” “But everyone’s happy.” “You think that just because a person doesn’t question the way the system works that...
Now... Just run.' [said the Doctor.] One of the things you learn very quickly around the Doctor is never to question him when he says that word. You just run. It's almost like breathing.
The fact that you wish to become extremely successful must mean that you currently do not see yourself as such. Therefore, you need to change. The question you should be asking is what do you need to become?
You can't get too far into the Gospels without noticing that Jesus made a pretty lousy apologist.
You know, bullying," her mother began. "I see it every day. Kids get bullied at school, they get cyber bullied, text bullied, Myface bullied." "Oh, God!" Arista groaned. "It's My Space or Facebook. Not Myface.
The mind travels faster than the pen; consequently, writing becomes a question of learning to make occasional wing shots, bringing down the bird of thought as it flashes by. A writer is a gunner, sometimes waiting in the blind for something to come i...
