#nation

He made me feel unhinged . . . like he could take me apart and put me back together again and again. ↗

— Chelsie Shakespeare

#desire #dreams #love #meant-to-be #past-lives

And then, well . . . He might have slept for a bit. He rather hoped he was sleeping, because he was quite certain he’d seen a six-foot rabbit hopping through his bedchamber, and if that wasn’t a dream, they were all in very big trouble. Although really, it wasn’t the rabbit that was so dangerous as much as the giant carrot he was swinging about like a mace. That carrot would feed an entire village. ↗

— Julia Quinn

#humor #dreams

The palace started as a single vaulted room and grew in proportion to my despair. It began as an exercise to keep my mind from its melancholy, then it became a dream and a necessity. . . . I built a temple in my head. . . . Its hallways were as lofty as a cathedral, and the arch of each window as supple as a bow. Its corridors were the passages of my own brain. ↗

— Lisa St Aubin de Terán

#content #creativity #form #imagination #structure

We have to heal our wounded world. The chaos, despair, and senseless destruction we see today are a result of the alienation that people feel from each other and their environment. ↗

— Michael Jackson

#destruction #healing #people #world #today

My advice is to never do tomorrow what you can do today. Procrastination is the thief of time. ↗

— Charles Dickens

#today

but as he plodded along a vague and almost hallucinatory pall hazed over his mind; he found himself at one point, with no notion of how it could be, a step from an almost certain fatal cliffside fall—falling humiliatingly and helplessly, he thought; on and on, with no one even to witness it. Here there existed no one to record his or anyone else's degradation, and any courage or pride which might manifest itself here at the end would go unmarked: the dead stones, the dust-stricken weeds dry and dying, perceived nothing, recollected nothing, about him or themselves. ↗

— Philip K. Dick

#death #degradation #dying #oblivion #courage

Brooklyn was a dream. All the things that happened there just couldn't happen. It was all dream stuff. Or was it all real and true and was it that she, Francie, was the dreamer? ↗

— Betty Smith

#dreams #growing-up #hope #imagination #leaving

It is just my imagination that flies, While she is wrapped up in her bedsheets like a nest. ↗

— Kiera Woodhull

#dreams #flying #imagination #owl #dreams

And who cares for imagination? Who does not think it a rather dangerous, senseless attribute, akin to weakness, perhaps partaking of frenzy - a disease rather than a gift of the mind? Probably all think it so but those who possess, or fancy they possess it. To hear them speak, you would believe that their hearts would be cold if that elixir did not flow about them, that their eyes would be dim if that flame did not refine their vision, that they would be lonely if this strange companion abandoned them. You would suppose that it imparted some glad hope to spring, some fine charm to summer, some tranquil joy to autumn, some consolation to winter, which you do not feel. All illusion, of course; but the fanatics cling to their dream, and would not give it for gold. ↗

— Charlotte Brontë

#dreams

I can dream, though - can't I, for myself? Even if you have not the imagination or the soul? ↗

— Barbara Scrupski

#imagination #dreams