Love thy neighbor as thyself. Unless he calls you names. Then do not love him, run in the opposite direction and throw a gerbil at his door.
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Peanut butter is my frenemy.
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I want to read, write, and nothing else. I do not want to get married, I do not want to go to church, I do not want to file taxes; I do not want to eat. But Grandma disagrees, and Grandma always wins.
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Every fairytale has a villain. All high quality happy endings involve a black-hearted monster. I just didn't want you to be mine.
chance quality friendship life chaos writing villain adventure faith happiness history art identity creativity stories writing-life passion future past inspirational moving-on characters fairy-tales living happy friends self-help believe hate ideas loss broken-heart risk remember endings discovery writing-process lovers addiction truths breaking-up love-hurts being journal fairytale love-at-first-sight breakups monster addicts broken-hearted-quotes lovers-love-story lovers-quarrels lovers-sadness youth-age broken-hearted good-morning journaling journalist
.. Hurts not just the heart, but every part.
chance friendship life chaos writing adventure faith happiness history art identity creativity stories writing-life passion future past inspirational moving-on characters heart fairy-tales living friends self-help believe hate ideas loss broken-heart risk remember discovery writing-process lovers truths breaking-up love-hurts being journal love-at-first-sight breakups part broken-hearted-quotes lovers-love-story lovers-quarrels lovers-sadness youth-age broken-hearted journaling journalist
Art, in itself, is an attempt to bring order out of chaos.
chaos order art
Without poets, without artists.. Everything would fall apart into chaos. There would be no more seasons, no more civilizations, no more thought, no more humanity, no more life even; and impotent darkness would reign forever. Poets and artists together determine the features of their age, and the future meekly conforms to their edit.
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Artistic symbols and myths speak out of the primordial, preconscious realm of the mind which is powerful and chaotic. Both symbol and myth are ways of bringing order and form into this chaos.
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Creation from chaos is natural. We've come to a place where we've realized that we have this actual physical need to create things. We've discovered that we hate people en masse, we're sick of homogenized culture, and these realizations have left holes in our hearts. We create to fill those holes, to be able to sleep at night knowing we've done something, even a small something, to confront the manufactured culture that is currently being churned out.
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Whereas life separates meaning from emotion, art unites them. Story is an instrument by which you create such epiphanies at will, the phenomenon known as aesthetic emotion.. Life on its own, without art to shape it, leaves you in confusion and chaos, but aesthetic emotion harmonizes what you know with what you feel to give you a heightened awareness and a sureness of your place in reality.
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Artists are agents of chaos. It is the artistsjob to encourage entropy, to promote chaos. Idols must be killed, icons crushed, beliefsshattered. It is the artists job to encourage legitimate, unadulterated, raw thought andemotion. Art that does nothing new, that simply fills an established role, is not art. It is a product. A stale, stagnant product of a disgustingly mundane process that has beendone so much it is assumed mandatory. Little different than feces. The last thing the world needs is to get shittier.
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I have an idea that the only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in without disgust is the beauty which now and then men create out of the chaos. The pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they write, and the lives they lead. Of all these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art.
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Remember, faith is the harbinger of chaos.
chaos faith remember atheism
When the voice of your friend or the page of your book sinks into democratic equality with the pattern of the wallpaper, the feel of your clothes, your memory of last night, and the noises from the road, you are falling asleep. The highly selective consciousness enjoyed by fully alert men, with all its builded sentiments and consecrated ideals, has as much to be called real as the drowsy chaos, and more.
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Fiction is art and art is the triumph over chaos to celebrate a world that lies spread out around us like a bewildering and stupendous dream.
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.. Books provided much-needed ballast - something we both craved, amid the chaos and upheaval..
chaos books
Out of the cacophony of random suffering and chaos that can mark human life, the life artist sees or creates a symphony of meaning and order. A life of wholeness does not depend on what we experience. Wholeness depends on how we experience our lives.
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Either we are adrift in chaos or we are individuals, created, loved, upheld and placed purposefully, exactly where we are. Can you believe that? Can you trust God for that?
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I believe order is better than chaos, creation better than destruction. I prefer gentleness to violence, forgiveness to vendetta. On the whole I think that knowledge is preferable to ignorance, and I am sure that human sympathy is more valuable than ideology. I believe that in spite of the recent triumphs of science, men haven't changed much in the last two thousand years; and in consequence we must try to learn from history.
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I want you here. I don't care if it's a hundred degrees and every blade of grass dies. Without you, none of that matters to me.
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The Chinese used gunpowder to make fireworks for celebrations, and the white man came along and said, Holy shit, we can use this to kill people. What better way to celebrate than that?
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Because children grow up, we think a child's purpose is to grow up. But a child's purpose is to be a child. Nature doesn't disdain what lives only for a day. It pours the whole of itself into the each moment. We don't value the lily less for not being made of flint and built to last. Life's bounty is in its flow, later is too late. Where is the song when it's been sung? The dance when it's been danced? It's only we humans who want to own the future, too. We persuade ourselves that the universe is modestly employed in unfolding our destination. We note the haphazard chaos of history by the day, by the hour, but there is something wrong with the picture. Where is the unity, the meaning, of nature's highest creation? Surely those millions of little streams of accident and wilfulness have their correction in the vast underground river which, without a doubt, is carrying us to the place where we're expected! But there is no such place, that's why it's called utopia. The death of a child has no more meaning than the death of armies, of nations. Was the child happy while he lived? That is a proper question, the only question. If we can't arrange our own happiness, it's a conceit beyond vulgarity to arrange the happiness of those who come after us.
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The ocean pulsed outside our window. The sound of the waves crashing on the rocks below usually calmed me down, but the fear and chaos that were tangled in my mind made that an impossibility.
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War was so many things, and not the least of which confusion. What was wrong? What was right, for that matter?Was killing right or wrong? Brave or cowardly? Human nature or unnatural behavior of creatures too smart for their own good?Loyalty, betrayal, hate, love, fear, friendship, teamwork, violence. War was connected to all of these. Hard work, sadness, suffering, discipline, chaos, questions, few answers, strategy, bravery, foolishness, death, life. And both winning and losing were only two small aspects of the word war.
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I want us to enter into the laughter of the God that is before, during and after the experience of being human, to swim in grace, to revel in messiness, to find joy in the suffering and love in the chaos.
chaos faith god
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