Besides our eyes, skin and the other senses through which we receive the shadows of the exterior reality, we have a 'mental eye' (intelligence) with which we can perceive reality as it is.
All sanity depends on this: that it should be a delight to feel the roughness of a carpet under smooth soles, a delight to feel heat strike the skin, a delight to stand upright, knowing the bones are moving easily under the flesh.
I had to learn the hard way that treating the skin like an A-bomb drop zone is completely counterproductive. And through my healing journey, I've discovered something miraculous: that moisturizers can heal in unimaginable ways.
Jo shook her head. She wished she had an answer for Claire, but as far as she knew, love would leave its mark. Sometimes it even took the skin right off you.
When she listened to songs that she loved on the radio, something stirred inside her. A liquid ache spread under her skin, and she walked out of the world like a witch.
Talking to a therapist, I thought, was like taking your clothes off and then taking your skin off, and then having the other person say, "Would you mind opening up your rib cage so that we can start?
She draws back, yet refuses to lose skin contact. Golden light flickers across his face. He is the night, the stars. His soul shines so brightly, she could pour it into a jar, and it’d be as bright as the sun.
Something strange started to rage inside me, hearing you inhale sharply as I tried to kiss those scars away or etch them deeper into your skin, wanting to mark you in an entirely different way.
And for a moment there, despite the bruising, despite the snarled dirty hair, despite her sunburned skin and the suffering in her eyes that she refused to let defeat her, she was one of the prettiest things he'd ever seen. ~Dallas and Amy~
I'm awful at karaoke, but if I did have to sing, I'd go for my favourite Frank Sinatra song 'I've Got You Under My Skin.' The fact I love Frank is my grandfather's doing: he drummed it into me from a very early age that Frank Sinatra is God.
I found the skeleton of a caveman a few years back. Miraculously, it had skin and hair still attached, and amazingly my archaeological discovery actually talked to me saying, “Jarod, when are you going to stop mooching off your mother and me?
Caleb and Tris exchange a look. The skin on his face and on her knuckles is nearly the same colour, purple-blue-green, as if drawn with ink. This is what happens when siblings collide - they injure each other in the same way.
You must learn to heed your senses. Humans use but a tiny percentage of theirs. They barely look, they rarely listen, they never smell, and they think that they can only experience feelings through their skin. But they talk, oh, do they talk.
Have you ever felt really close to someone? So close that you can't understand why you and the other person have two separate bodies, two separate skins?
I have studied humans for a small eternity. Intent infuses their every movement. Road maps to their inner navigation, plastered all over their skin. Born to be slaves.
As if you could pick in love, as if it were not a lightning bolt that splits your bones and leaves you staked out in the middle of the courtyard. (...) You don't pick out the rain that soaks you to the skin when you come out of a concert.
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy! The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy! Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an angel!
Lorth spoke a word and came into focus, though he had learned from experience that his features, the ghost-pale skin of a Northman with the gold-green eyes of a wolf, were almost as unnerving to a Tarthian as the shadowy form of a cloaking spell.
You skin is so soft. Smells like…” She had to tilt him to get this other arm free and hated knowing how badly she was hurting him as she did so. “Sheer, unadulterated fear?
When I am lonely for boys what I miss is their bodies. The smell of their skin, its saltiness. The rough whisper of stubble against my cheek. The strong firm hands, the way they rest on the curve of my back.
The instinct to tell our children that they are better than someone else’s children, based on nothing more than the color of their skin, is now a fossilized aberration that serves no useful purpose.
