#tin

Sometimes a story catches your imagination so much it has to be told. That is what I love about writing. It lets the images in your mind burst forth into words drawing a vivid picture that takes you away on a journey that would otherwise be impossible. ↗

— S.E. Smith

#imagination

The heart is a repository of emotions--real, imagined, and invented, owned and borrowed, past, present, future--and there in your chest, operating at an average of 80 beats per minute at rest, is a heart that has stories to tell. ↗

— A.A. Patawaran

#writing #imagination

The arts especially address the idea of aesthetic experience. An aesthetic experience is one in which your senses are operating at their peak; when you’re present in the current moment; when you’re resonating with the excitement of this thing that you’re experiencing; when you are fully alive. ↗

— Ken Robinson

#creativity #writing #art

But a man may then imagine in your work what he pleases, what you never meant!" Not what he pleases, but what he can. ↗

— George MacDonald

#reading #writing #imagination

To write is to carve a new path through the terrain of the imagination, or to point out new features on a familiar route. To read is to travel through that terrain with the author as a guide-- a guide one might not always agree with or trust, but who can at least be counted on to take one somewhere. ↗

— Rebecca Solnit

#writing #imagination

Anything creative requires a bit of acting,and filling in blanks with imagination. ↗

— Christina Westover

#christina-westover #creativity #imagination #inspiration #writing

If you were ever dumped after knitting a guy a sweater, consider the possibility that the problem was with the sweater, not you. The recipient probably took one look at the thing, imagined a lifetime of having to pretend to like (and wear) this sweater and others of its like, and saw no choice but to flee into the night ↗

— Stephanie Pearl-McPhee

#sweater #yarn #imagination

...she imagines her body curled in the narrow monk's bed, knees to chin, her own irrefutable geography, but she sees the blood of her futile heart seeping out over her chest and arms and legs, flooding across the rough wooden floor, down the narrow wooden stairs and out into the old soil of the garden. No roses, no, she does not even ask to make roses, just dissolution; most any night she asks just for that. ↗

— Michelle Latiolais

#emptiness #grief #grieving #loss #lost-love

We're all entitled to our different likes and dislikes. Imagine the world if we all liked the same things. ↗

— Malia Ann Haberman

#chase-tinker #ideas #imagination #magic #thoughts

My heart filled with Nick's smile, with the look of sheer adoration he gave me as he lugged the bucket. In the space of an instant, I felt it again—the crumbling of an old part of me, the growth of something new. The changing of my heart into a mother's heart. It happened at the strangest times, in the most unexpected ways. Nick looked at me, and the love I felt for him was almost painful in its intensity. I'd never known I had it in me, the capacity to love this way. ... But when Nick looked at me, my mind tumbled through nights and mornings, seasons and years in the future. ... I saw a future like none I'd ever imagined. I wanted it, every minute of it. ↗

— Lisa Wingate

#motherhood #parenting #change