Ashes Wine And Dust Quotes

What happens when two introverts collide? Do they dissolve completely in each other’s patience and silence, or do they break their glass shells and become new people?

There are no plans, just people fooling themselves by attempting to design their fates and futures. It makes them feel invincible, even if it’s for a transient period of time.

After everything is said and done, a memory remains a treacherous thing…How long does one cling on to the people they’ve lost? How long could I have remembered my grandfather? How long had it been since I forgotten him and my mind began harbouring other things?

People recover differently. Some change cities, some fall in love and some begin writing.

One realizes the immortality of true love only after the lover dies

It is hard to explain to a privileged child the difference between freedom and captivity. For him, the world functions differently, all rains bear fruits and all men are free. He catches a golden bird and puts it inside a gold cage. He watches it grow, captivated, unaware that with its beautiful body comes a pair of wings that can set it free.

The sidewalks were haunted by dust ghosts all night as the furnace wind summoned them up, swung them about, and gentled them down in a warm spice on the lawns. Trees, shaken by the footsteps of late-night strol- lers, sifted avalanches of dust. From midnight on, it seemed a volcano beyond the town was showering red-hot ashes every- where, crusting slumberless night watchmen and irritable dogs. Each house was a yellow attic smoldering with spon- taneous combustion at three in the morning. Dawn, then, was a time where things changed element for element. Air ran like hot spring waters nowhere, with no sound. The lake was a quantity of steam very still and deep over valleys of fish and sand held baking under its serene vapors. Tar was poured licorice in the streets, red bricks were brass and gold, roof tops were paved with bronze. The high- tension wires were lightning held forever, blazing, a threat above the unslept houses. The cicadas sang louder and yet louder. The sun did not rise, it overflowed.

A child’s world is confusing; he is continuously deceived, deceived about broken relationships, fallen relatives, family history, secrets; deceptions perpetuated for the sake of keeping him safe, untainted, unharmed from the claws of the outside world.

And what is gossip anyway?Just fragments of sad accounts, maneuvered and mutilated year after year for our sinful pleasure.

I have learned the beauty of childhood, now. Every trivial thing holds great significance. You are sensitive and vulnerable to everything around you; you notice the changing leaves and all the colors in the rainbow. Every conversation leaves a brilliant imprint on your mind.

Gossip is not adopted by the bored. It is an art of discourse adopted by those who have experienced absolutely nothing thrilling in their lives; they have never really fallen in love or casually spoken to a complete stranger, and they never dreamt of doing anything extraordinary. They are a group of people with dull lives and souls.

is the sad reality to understand early that our lives are nothing but a series of fleeting moments, moments that will keep escaping if we do not preserve them in our memories. Memories cannot be stolen. They are ours and ours forever.

Sometimes loving a man is like loving a cat. You can never be loved back.

We have come from dust and to dust we shall return.

I was an unusual child and grew into an unusual adult.

Pain transcends through an invisible crack in your body and slithers inside you. It travels in your vessels, befriends every organ and leaves a great impression as a souvenir. A shaped scar, a burning bruise or a deep wound. This souvenir is a constant reminder of the excruciating past. The brutal wound throbs and it reminds you that the pain has not yet set you free. The tattoo still burns. The tattoo always burns.

There is an old lady who lives on the moon. You can see her spinning thread on her spinning wheel. Her isolation and distance from the world has made her a sage. She weaves stories. She knows every wanderer who crosses the sea grass meadows, she knows every woman who uses her blackened blue hands to grind grain in the hand mill, she is friends with the little girl who got lost in the corn fields and was never found, and she knows the story of the boy who played flute on the little hill when his lambs slept. Grandmother said that if I had been a good girl the moon lady would weave for me a magical blanket and every stitch will be made from a moment of my life, a forgotten moment, a memory. Every stitch would be special. It would be made especially for me.

Goodbye Lahore, you've been a kind friend.

It is the sad reality to understand early that our lives are nothing but a series of fleeting moments, moments that will keep escaping if we do not preserve them in our memories. Memories cannot be stolen. They are ours and ours forever.

We sat down, withdrawn, in the room full of ashes, old echoes and strange bliss. That day we realized that we had more in common than the unexplainable urge to communicate with ghosts and dead things; we both had lost someone important and we were very young to realize that that was not the end of things.

Though the rooms were deserted, there was no speck of dust, and I would learn that none could cross the marble threshold. However I tracked upon it, the floor was always clean, the tables gleaming. The ashes vanished from the fireplace, the dishes washed themselves, and the firewood regrew overnight. In the pantry there were jars of oil and wine, bowls of cheese and barley-grain, always fresh and full.

What care I for this mortal coil, Where treasures are yet so frail, For it is you that is my life blood, The wine to my Holy Grail. And if I see the judgement day, Where the gods fill the air with dust, I'll happily choke on your memory, As my kingdom turns to rust. Though all my love is turned to ash, And my dreams are all but gone, My actions must not be too brash, For you may yet live on. So my grief and pain for now is sealed. Beneath the waters that we used to love, Until new hope is at last revealed, And you return from the world above.

Mariam, the ashes...they're gone.

That is grandmother’s spirit, look at her kiss the clouds and escape all the madness.

How far is America? How big is this America?

My chin kept dropping to my chest, my hair in my face, my veins an alcoholic vapor ready to burn. Nothing but tequila, wine, and rum feeding me into a lava river, a huge molten mother rolling over me, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,