lit & life

Time is luck. You grab it. You hold on tight. And you be there. You have to be there for it. It’s going, with or without you. And no one knows for how long. No one knows.

Stories were the greatest currency to us, greater than power, greater than control. Stories were our food, nourishment, enrichment. To consume a story was to add to our code, deepen our minds. We felt it the moment we took it in. We were changed. It was like falling. It was how we evolved.

Words were creators of worlds; you had to be careful with them.

These are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.

He too was in search of a quietus, of peace. So, his old self must somehow be cancelled, put away for good. It must not rise up like a spectre from the tomb to claim him at some future point, dragging him down into the sepulchre of the past. And if he failed then he failed, but one did not contemplate what lay beyond failure while one was still trying to succeed.

…there is that between us that cannot be seen, and yet is too strong for breaking.

Every life is a life – understand?

But every once in a while you find someone who's iridescent, and when you do, nothing will ever compare.

I am the only person in the world I should like to know thoroughly; but I don't see any chance of it just at present.

Some of these things are true and some of them lies. But they are all good stories.

Limited minds can recognize limitations only in others.

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom: If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another.

The debts we owe ourselves are the hardest to pay.

There are threads in our lives. You pull one, and everything else gets affected.

Aging isn’t just about our bodies decaying while we’re still inside them. It’s about living with the accumulation of experiences. The heavy burden of the ugly ones, the longing for the beautiful.

The forest was almost thunderous in its myriad sounds.