I think, to me, reality is better than being fake.
Face reality as it is, not as it was or as you wish it to be.
There is no unique picture of reality.
Time and memory are true artists; they remould reality nearer to the heart's desire.
In the stillness of your presence, you can feel your own formless and timeless reality as the unmanifested life that animates your physical form. You can then feel the same life deep within every other human and every other creature. You look beyond the veil of form and separation. This is the realization of oneness. This is love.
We live in a fantasy world, a world of illusion. The great task in life is to find reality.
We don't live in the world of reality, we live in the world of how we perceive reality.
Love is an ideal thing, marriage a real thing; a confusion of the real with the ideal never goes unpunished
The secret of happiness is to face the fact that the world is horrible, horrible, horrible.
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science.
Crazy isn't a condition it's a place and it exists somewhere between Love and Oblivion
It goes with a courageous intent to greet the universe as it really is, not to foist our emotional predispositions on it but to courageously accept what our explorations tell us.
Don't be about just any life. Be about the life you want to be about.
The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.
For me, writing is immortality. It is wisdom. It is never-ending.
What we accept as reality is primarily a construction of our imagination.
You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.
I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. That is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.
The pessimist complains about the wind;The optimist expects it to change;And the realist adjusts the sails.
Let us suppose, then, that we are dreaming, and that all these particulars--namely, the opening of the eyes, the motion of the head, the forth- putting of the hands--are merely illusions; and even that we really possess neither an entire body nor hands such as we see. Nevertheless it must be admitted at least that the objects which appear to us in sleep are, as it were, painted representations which could not have been formed unless in the likeness of realities; and, therefore, that those general objects, at all events, namely, eyes, a head, hands, and an entire body, are not simply imaginary, but really existent. For, in truth, painters themselves, even when they study to represent sirens and satyrs by forms the most fantastic and extraordinary, cannot bestow upon them natures absolutely new, but can only make a certain medley of the members of different animals; or if they chance to imagine something so novel that nothing at all similar has ever been seen before, and such as is, therefore, purely fictitious and absolutely false, it is at least certain that the colors of which this is composed are real. And on the same principle, although these general objects, viz. a body, eyes, a head, hands, and the like, be imaginary, we are nevertheless absolutely necessitated to admit the reality at least of some other objects still more simple and universal than these, of which, just as of certain real colors, all those images of things, whether true and real, or false and fantastic, that are found in our consciousness (cogitatio), are formed.
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