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  • The pain passes, but the beauty remains. – Pierre Auguste Renoir

The pain passes, but the beauty remains. – Pierre Auguste Renoir

Published on 2019-09-092019-09-10 by Says The Parrot

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No sight so sad as that of a naughty child,” he began, “especially a naughty little girl. Do you know where the wicked go after death?””They go to hell,” was my ready and orthodox answer.”And what is hell? Can you tell me that?””A pit full of fire.””And should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there for ever?””No, sir.””What must you do to avoid it?”I deliberated a moment: my answer, when it did come was objectionable: “I must keep in good health and not die. – Charlotte Brontë

We are like children building a sand castle. We embellish it with beautiful shells, bits of driftwood, and pieces of colored glass. The castle is ours, off limits to others. We’re willing to attack if others threaten to hurt it. Yet despite all our attachment, we know that the tide will inevitably come in and sweep the sand castle away. The trick is to enjoy it fully but without clinging, and when the time comes, let it dissolve back into the sea. – Pema Chödrön

The NobodiesFleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escapingpoverty: that one magical day good luck will suddenly rain down onthem—will rain down in buckets. But good luck doesn’t rain downyesterday, today, tomorrow, or ever. Good luck doesn’t even fall in afine drizzle, no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, even if theirleft hand is tickling, or if they begin the new day with their rightfoot, or start the new year with a change of brooms.The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. The nobodies: theno ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, dying through life,screwed every which way.Who are not, but could be.Who don’t speak languages, but dialects.Who don’t have religions, but superstitions.Who don’t create art, but handicrafts.Who don’t have culture, but folklore.Who are not human beings, but human resources.Who do not have faces, but arms.Who do not have names, but numbers.Who do not appear in the history of the world, but in the policeblotter of the local paper.The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them. – Eduardo Galeano

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