#dream

If we live with possibilities we are exiles from the present which is given us by God to be our own, homeless and displaced in a future or a past which are not ours because they are always beyond our reach. The present is our right place, and we can lay hands on whatever it offers us. ↗

— Thomas Merton

#hope #pragmatism #present #dreams

Dreaming permits each and everyone of us to be quietly insane every night of out lives. ↗

— William Dement

#dreams #insanity #sleeping #dreams

És o meu sopro, a minha vida, o meu coração ↗

— Anne Bishop

#dreams

It takes an enormous amount of work to complete a novel, and each of the students who completed the course has accomplished something many people only dream about. ↗

— Daniel Schwabauer

#dreams

On those occasions when he had killed in the dark, he later needed to see his victims' faces because, in some unlit corner of his heart, he half expected to find his own face looking up at him, ice-white and dead-eyed. "Deep down," the dream-victim had said, "You know that you're already dead yourself, burnt out inside. You realize that you have far more in common with your victims after you've killed them than before. ↗

— Dean Koontz

#empty #need #numb #dreams

Naive keeps on dreaming of heaven on earth, ignoring the truth that even heavens are at war. ↗

— Toba Beta

#keep-on-dreaming #dreams

THE HOST is riding from Knocknarea And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare; Caolte tossing his burning hair And Niamh calling Away, come away: Empty your heart of its mortal dream. The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round, Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound, Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam, Our arms are waving, our lips are apart; And if any gaze on our rushing band, We come between him and the deed of his hand, We come between him and the hope of his heart. The host is rushing ’twixt night and day, And where is there hope or deed as fair? Caolte tossing his burning hair, And Niamh calling Away, come away ↗

— W.B. Yeats

#dreams

O sleepless as the river under thee, / Vaulting the sea, the prairies' dreaming sod, / Onto us lowliest sometime sweep, descend / And of the curveship lend a myth to God. ↗

— Hart Crane

#dreams

Ant swarming City City full of dreams Where in broad day the specter tugs your sleeve ↗

— Charles Baudelaire

#city #dreams

Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things - trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. ↗

— C.S. Lewis

#puddleglum #dreams