Never forget that you are the protagonist of your own story. And the antagonist of someone else's. And possible love interest in some other peoples. You are also a supporting charakter to a lots of peoples storys. You might even be the kind of stranger who unitentionally turns someones life around for the better.
'Cause getting your dreams it's strange, but it seems a little - well - complicated. There's a kind of a sort of: cost. There's a couple of things get: lost. There are bridges you cross you didn't know you crossed until you've crossed. And if that joy, that thrill doesn't thrill you like you think it will.
“It's so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.”
You get a strange feeling when you leave a place, I told him, like you'll not only miss the people you love but you'll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you'll never be this way ever again.
What if you slept? And what if, in your sleep, you dreamed? And what if, in your dream, you went to heaven and there plucked a strange and beautiful flower? And what if, when you awoke, you had the flower in your hand? Ah, what then?
Samuel Taylor ColeridgeDer Spruch darf mit Autorenangabe frei verwendet werden, da die urheberrechtliche Schutzfrist abgelaufen ist († 25. Juli 1834)
The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or sell the sky? The land? The idea is strange to us. Every part of this earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every meadow, all are holy in memory and experience of my people. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers. Each ghostly reflection in the clear water of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father. If we sell our land, you must never forget that it is sacred.
Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.