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Read through the most famous quotes by topic #understanding
Jamie came back to the apartment one night to find her spreading a viscous fluid onto a canvas. It was threaded wtih blood. "Good God," he said. "What the hell is that?" Pia didn't bother to look up but continued to knead the clear slime across the canvas. "It's my new piece." "But what is it?" He kept pointing. He'd never seen something so disgusting in his life. And her hands were completely in it. "It's Jodie's placenta. She gave it to me. I'm going to tack it up and let it dry on this canvas. Then I'm gonna glue-gun pictures of dead fetuses onto Lucite and make them the centerpeice." "Uh huh." She raised her sticky hands to him. "It's about women, you know? The way that the world opresses them, all right? And it's about babies, and . . . I don't know . . . I just got the placenta today." "Wow, that's wow . . . that's . . ." No words for this. He scratched his chin as she spread her hands in a concentric motion across the canvas. "So, do you really think anyone's gonna want to put that up on their wall when it's done?" he asked. She scowled, displeased. ↗
She stared into his eyes and announced, “A good-bye kiss.” It was at that Raid stopped dead. “What?” “Raiden, the gig is up,” she declared, and Raid closed his eyes. Jesus, how could the woman be so infuriating and so fucking cute all at once? He opened his eyes and asked, “The gig is up?” She leaned into him and hissed, “Yes.” Fuck, he wanted to kiss her. He also wanted to shake her. “Baby, it’s jig,” he corrected, and her head jerked, which made that mess of hair on her head jerk, which reminded him he wanted his hands in that hair. Then elsewhere. He needed to speed this shit up. “Sorry?” she asked, sounding confused, and he looked from her hair to her eyes and saw she was, in fact, confused. Yeah. Infuriating. And fucking cute. “The jig is up, not the gig,” he told her. Her eyes narrowed. “Seriously? You’re correcting my street lingo?” “Think that street lingo was the street lingo about eight decades ago, Hanna. So now it’s just lingo. ↗
When people recover from depression via psychotherapy, their attributions about recovery are likely to be different than those of people who have been treated with medication. Psychotherapy is a learning experience. Improvement is not produced by an external substance, but by changes within the person. It is like learning to read, write or ride a bicycle. Once you have learned, the skills stays with you. People no not become illiterate after they graduate from school, and if they get rusty at riding a bicycle, the skill can be acquired with relatively little practice. Furthermore, part of what a person might learn in therapy is to expect downturns in mood and to interpret them as a normal part of their life, rather than as an indication of an underlying disorder. This understanding, along with the skills that the person has learned for coping with negative moods and situations, can help to prevent a depressive relapse. ↗
All I have learned in life really just boils down to this: there is only one difference between the so-called wise and the so-called foolish...and between those who are truly happy and those who are not. Those who are wise - and those who are happy - embrace and appreciate life. Those who are unhappy and unwise do not. That is all; that is the only difference. ↗
#appreciating-life #appreciation #foolish #happiness #inner-peace
Love is the only answer to every question. It is the only thing that will serve you in every situation. It is the route and the destination. It is medication, liberation and should be at the heart of and expression of your vocation. ↗
By the time we began to understand enough about what the world to ask the right questions, our visit is over, and someone else is visiting, asking the same questions. ↗
#childhood-memories #growing-up #life #philosophy #understanding
For days and weeks on end one racks one's brains to no avail, and, if asked, one could not say whether one goes on writing purely out of habit, or a craving for admiration, or because one knows not how to do anything other, or out of sheer wonderment, despair or outrage, any more than one could say whether writing renders one more perceptive or more insane. Perhaps we all lose our sense of reality to the precise degree to which we are engrossed in our own work, and perhaps that is why we see in the increasing complexity of our mental constructs a means for greater understanding, even while intuitively we know that we shall never be able to fathom the imponderables that govern our course through life? ↗
#life #meaning #understanding #work #writing
