Added: Gabrial Dipietro - Date: 24.07.2021 12:41 - Views: 41033 - Clicks: 3103
in with Facebook in options. Goodre. Want to Read saving…. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. Error rating book. Refresh and try again. Sputnik Sweetheart Quotes Showing of What's the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Was the earth put here just to nourish human loneliness? Sometimes I think that's the only right thing to do. It's hard to put into words, but I guess it's like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again.
That sort of feeling. That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal in their own separate orbits. From far off they look like beautiful shooting stars, but in reality they're nothing more than prisons, where each of us is locked up alone, going nowhere. When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for the briefest moment.
In the next instant we'd be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing. Dreaming on and on. Entering the world of dreams and never coming out. Living in dreams for the rest of time. We would have been far more happy if we had.
But that was like the tides, the change of seasons--something immutable, an immovable destiny we could never alter. No matter how cleverly we might shelter it, our delicate friendship wasn't going to last forever. We were bound to reach a dead end. That was painfully clear. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that's stolen from us--that's snatched right out of our hands--even if we are left completely changed, with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this way, in silence.
We draw ever nearer to the end of our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday. Leaving behind a feeling of immeasurable emptiness. Not at all. Boundaries don't exist. So in dreams there are hardly ever collisions. Even if there are, they don't hurt.
Reality is different. Reality bites. Reality, reality.
We're connected to reality by the same line. All I have to do is quietly draw it towards me. I can't cook or clean the house. My room's a mess, and I'm always losing things. I love music, but I can't sing a note. I'm clumsy and can barely sew a stitch. My sense of direction is the pits, and I can't tell left from right half the time. When I get angry, I tend to break things. Plates and pencils, alarm clocks.
Later on I regret it, but at the time I can't help myself. I have no money in the bank. I'm bashful for no reason, and I have hardly any friends to speak of. No matter how deep and fatal the loss, no matter how important the thing that's stolen from us - that's snatched right out of our hands - even if we are left completely changed, with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to play out our lives this way, in silence.
Leaving behind a feeling of insurmountable emptiness Maybe, in some distant place, everything is already, quietly, lost. Or at least there exists a silent place where everything can disappear, melting together in a single, overlapping figure. And as we live our lives we discover - drawing toward us the thin thre attached to each - what has been lost.
I closed my eyes and tried to bring to mind as many beautiful lost things as I could.
Drawing them closer, holding on to them. Knowing all the while that their lives are fleeting.
Ice is cold; roses are red; I'm in love. And this love is about to carry me off somewhere. The current's too overpowering; I don't have any choice. It may very well be a special place, some place I've never seen before. Danger may be lurking there, something that may end up wounding me deeply, fatally.
I might end up losing everything. But there's no turning back. I can only go with the flow. Even if it means I'll be burned up, gone forever. No matter who I was dealing with. Or gone on a trip to come home. But falling in love is always a pretty crazy thing. It might appear out of the blue and just grab you. Who knows — maybe even tomorrow. A careful, fortunate few cherish that flame, nurture it, hold it as a torch to light their way. Remove everything pointless from an imperfect life, and it'd lose even its imperfection. In an instant it's sucked back into the darkness behind and vanishes.
But if you close your eyes, that point of light stays with you, just barely for a few moments. Given the chance, people are surprisingly frank when they talk about themselves. Self-styled honest and open people, without realizing what they're doing, blithely use some self-serving excuse to get what they want. And those "good at sensing others' true feelings" are duped by the most transparent flattery. It's enough to make me ask the question: How well do we really know ourselves? I could see things I'd never seen before. Books and music were my best friends. I had a couple of good friends at school, but never met anyone I could really speak my heart to.
We'd just make small talk, play soccer together. When something bothered me, I didn't talk with anyone about it. I thought it over all by myself, came to a conclusion, Still looking for a sweerheart took action alone. Not that I really felt lonely. I thought that's just the way things are. Human beings, in the final analysis, have to survive on their own. Climb up to the top of some high place like the pyramids. The highest place I can find. Where you can see forever.
Stand on the very top, look all around the world, see all the scenery, and see with my own eyes what's been lost from the world.
Lonely metal souls in the unimpeded darkness of space, they meet, pass each other, and part, never to meet again. No words passing between them.
No promises to keep. You gather up bones and make your gate, but no matter how wonderful the gate might be, that alone doesn't make it a living breathing novel. A story is not something of this world. A real story requires a kind of magical baptism to link the world on this side with the world on the other side. Welcome back. Just a moment while we you in to your Goodre .Still looking for a sweerheart
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Sputnik Sweetheart Quotes