Darts Inspirational Quotes

All knowledge is worth having.

Fireflies, to me, are nighttime butterflies, Dazzling the night with magical flashes of light. When I see these teeny tiny sparks dart in the night, I am overcome with a sense of comfort and calm, Same as when a butterfly flutters around me during the day. I’m drawn to the dance of both astonishing critters. They remind me of life. They remind me of hope.

I already began to inspire the men with love. My breast began to take its right form, and such a breast! white, firm, and formed like that of the Venus de' Medici; my eyebrows were as black as jet, and as for my eyes, they darted flames and eclipsed the luster of the stars, as I was told by the poets of our part of the world. My maids, when they dressed and undressed me, used to fall into an ecstasy in viewing me before and behind; and all the men longed to be in their places.

A speck of ire can blaze a fire; the fate of war can be sealed with a dart, a butterfly flapping its wings may turn the tide miles apart!

Supongo que eso es lo más aterrador. Darte uenta de que a la muerte no puede importarle menos lo grande que hayas sido en la vida, las batallas que hayas podido ganar o lo mucho que te hayan temido. Es condenadamente democrática, nos guste o no

And, talking about the God of Love, Eros, who had grown up from the cute angelic Cupid with his ten colourful darts & golden bow, now wanted to be the God of True Love. He locked himself in embrace with his lovely wife, Psyche, all day & night, since, as he put it, Psyche was the Soul, & he, Eros, was the Body. And thus, Body & Soul should always be together. And he had, accordingly, set his golden bow & quiver of colourful darts aside.

Humans in the power of death looks no worthier than animal, cherish ur life!

To write, to be able to write, what does it mean? It means spending long hours dreaming before a white page, scribbling unconsciously, letting your pen play round a blot of ink and nibble at a half-formed word, scratching it, making it bristle with darts and adorning it with antennae and paws until it loses all resemblance to a legible word and turns into a fantastic insect or a fluttering creature half butterfly, half fairy. To write is to sit and stare, hypnotized, at the reflection of the window in the silver ink-stand, to feel the divine fever mounting to one's cheeks and forehead while the hand that writes grows blissfully numb upon the paper. It also means idle hours curled up in the hollow of the divan, and then the orgy of inspiration from which one emerges stupefied and aching all over, but already recompensed and ladened with treasures that one unloads slowly on to the virgin page in the little round pool of light under the lamp. To write is to pour one's innermost self passionately upon the tempting paper, at such frantic speed that sometimes one's hand struggles and rebels, overdriven by the impatient god who guides it — and to find, next day, in place of the golden bough that bloomed miraculously in that dazzling hour, a withered bramble and a stunted flower. To write is the joy and torment of the idle. Oh to write! From time to time I feel a need, sharp as thirst in summer, to note and to describe. And then I take up my pen again and attempt the perilous and elusive task of seizing and pinning down, under its flexible double-pointed jib, the many-hued, fugitive, thrilling adjective.… The attack does not last long; it is but the itching of an old scar.

(I know, it's a poem but oh well). Why! who makes much of a miracle? As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with my mother, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring; Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best-- mechanics, boatmen, farmers, Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera, Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery, Or behold children at their sports, Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old woman, Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial, Or my own eyes and figure in the glass; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place. To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same; Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them, All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles. To me the sea is a continual miracle; The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships, with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?

If your work’s not urgent, you take it slow; if urgent, you are always on the go. If your jog is to stay fit, you run slow; if to win race, you dart like an arrow. The height of your goal dictates your motion: “Low goals—slow motion; high goals—fast motion.” Hence, when life is slow, you know where to go: “Either goals are low, or high but you’re slow.

Ephesians 6:16-18 16 Above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. 17 And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God: 18 Praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit, and watching thereunto with all perseverance and supplication for all saints.

You and me together, you-and-me-together, you and me. It was a thought that woke her from slumber, like inspiration or a stomachache. It was a notion that could not be doused, couldn’t be extinguished, except by the motion of her brush. She was painting to quiet her thoughts, the way they scribbled themselves in her mind, leaping and darting like insects, alighting on different planes.

At this time of life one has already been wounded more than once by the darts of love; it no longer evolves by itself, obeying its own incomprehensible and fatal laws, before our passive and astonished hearts. We come to its aid, we falsify it by memory and by suggestion. Recognising one of its symptoms, we remember and re-create the rest. Since we know its song, which is engraved on our hearts in its entirety, there is no need for a woman to repeat the opening strains—filled with the admiration which beauty inspires—for us to remember what follows.

But this little bow & its ten harmless darts, once in the hands of the Godling, became a magic bow & a lethal weapon, since the Godling was Eros reborn. And its ten darts which were of the seven colours of the rainbow or spectrum, plus white, black & grey, when shot at Gods, Goddesses, Nymphs, Mortals & any others, could inspire the same feelings of love, hate & confusion as Aphrodite used to inspire in others with her girdle. As, indeed, as soon as Cupid was born, the Goddess of Love had lost her magic girdle. Since a Goddess of Love, who was already in her seventies, had no more use for such toys.

See that vine?" I said to Tobble. "My siblings and I used to swing out from it, then land in the lake." I gave a small laugh. "Well, they did anyway. I was too afraid." "You? Afraid?" "Always and forever," I said. "I'm beginning to think that's how life works." "Are we stopping here?" Tobble asked. "The horses are well watered." "Yes, but I'm not. Do you know what I need, Tobble? I need a swim." I checked the icy water with a long stick to be sure it was as deep as I recalled. Two silver fish darted past. As I clambered to a low-hanging branch, I felt a familiar shiver of anticipation and dread, and for a moment, I was the old Byx, with all her hopes and fears and longings. Then I kicked off as hard as I could, swung far out over the pond, and let go.

I want you to be happy. Eat it.” A wry smile curved Rose’s lips. “Am I to find happiness in a piece of chocolate cake?” Eve already had a forkful en route to her mouth. “I stake my reputation on it.” “Oh,” she replied dryly. “Surely heaven is just a bite away.” “Speaking of heaven,” Eve said a few minutes later when Rose thought she might expire from the bliss the dessert inspired, “tell me about your evening at Saint’s Row.” “Shh!” Her paranoid gaze darted around to see if anyone had overheard, but there was no one standing close enough to their whitewashed bench. “Don’t shush me, Rose Danvers. I’m your best friend and you’ve kept me waiting four whole days! I demand details.” Cheeks flushed, Rose stared at the half-eaten cake on her plate. Eve’s timing might leave something to be desired, but at least she’d stopped Rose from eating the entire slice. “What do you want to know?” Eve’s expression was incredulous. “Everything, of course.” Then, as though realizing who she was talking to, she sighed. “Did you find him?” Rose nodded. “I did.” The fire in her cheeks burned hotter, and she looked away. “Oh, Eve!” Her friend grabbed her wrist, clattering fork against plate. “That arse didn’t hurt you did he?” “No!” Then lowering her voice, “And he’s not an arse.” Using such rough language made her feel daring and bold. The scowl on Eve’s face eased. “Then…he was good to you?” Rose nodded, leaning closer. “It was the most amazing experience of my life.” The blonde giggled, bringing her head nearer to Rose’s. “Tell me everything.” So Rose did, within reason, looking up every once in awhile to make sure no one could hear. Afterward, when she was finished, Eve looked at her with a peculiar expression. “It sounds wonderful.” “It was.” Eve’s ivory brow tightened. “So, why do you sound so…disappointed?” Rose sighed. “It’s going to sound so pathetic, but when I saw Grey the next day he didn’t recognize me.” “But I thought you didn’t want him to know it was you.” Rose laughed darkly. “I don’t. That’s the rub of it.” She turned to more fully face her friend. “But part of me wanted him to realize it was me, Eve. I wanted him to see me as a woman, not as his responsibility or burden.” “I’m sure he doesn’t view you as any such thing.” Shaking her head Rose set the plate of cake aside, her appetite gone for good. "I thought this scheme would make everything better, and it's only made things worse." Worse because her feelings for Grey hadn't lessened as she'd hoped they might, they'd only deepened. Eve worried her upper lip with her bottom teeth. "Are you going to meet him again?" Another shake of her head, vehement this time. "No." "But. Rose, he wants to see you." "Not me, her." This was said with a bit more bitterness than Rose was willing to admit. He might have whispered her name, but it wasn't her he wanted to meet. Eve chuckled. "But you are her." She squeezed her wrist again. "Rose, don't you see? You're who he wants to see again, whether he knows it was you or not." Rose hadn't looked at it that way. She wasn't quite convinced her friend was right, but it was enough to make her doubt her own conclusions. She shook her head again. Blast, but she was making herself lightheaded. "I just don't know." "You'll figure it out," Eve allowed. "You always do.

De golpe siento lo que es coraje. El coraje es permanecer quieto, aunque desees salir corriendo. El coraje es plantarte y darte la vuelta para encarar aquello que temes [...] Es abrir bien los ojos y aguantarle la mirada a ese miedo.

She is a prisoner on the stage as her eyes dart from her notes to the awaiting guests. She cannot leave. She has to live out each excruciating moment. She can no longer feel why it was important to do this in the first place. Her mind has become a Holocaust survivor, just grasping at life, trying to see it through in the paltry way that it exists right now.

I watched him play every perfect chord as if it were an entire song, every song as if it were a grand sonata. The old man was lost in the captivating music and I was lost too—in his commanding presence, in his seamless movement, in his unmatched talent. His fingers floated effortlessly over the worn strings of the acoustic guitar, each one crossing over the other with calming ease. I found it hard to distinguish where one part ended and another began, inspiring and stirring my soul like a miracle. Elsie watched him with great intent, with great wonder, as did I. Then she got up from her leather armchair in the corner, walked over to the parlor grand piano, and joined in just as the song began to swell to its airy peak. They played together flawlessly, a man and a woman, for what could have been the thousandth time. Yet as I watched them, as the music filled me like the warmth of coming home, I could see it was new to them too, though ancestral and old. I was swept away, amazed at how each part was so distinct, so solitary in and of itself, and how yet it could only capture its full potential, its full beauty, as a part of something greater. I thought of how we are all pieces of music, of how one person would cease to swell without the other, of how the part that moves us the most freely in ourselves might not exist at all. I watched Johnny as he continued to strum, then Elsie as her fingers darted from place to place on the keys of the piano. The music swept over me like a memory of summertime, and I closed my eyes, letting it take me where it would, to a place so strikingly beautiful that everything else was silently perfect, letting the melody lead the moment. The hopeful sound filled my expectant ears and my emotions felt new again, as if I were a child, the moment peacefully pure, like rocking a newborn back to sleep. Wet streams of tears escaped my soft, emotional eyes as I let the notes take their full effect. To Johnny and Elsie, music was a language that didn't require words. In fact, it exceeded them. For what was flowing from the withered hands of the couple before me now was in itself perfection. Words could only ruin a moment this pure. As I watched them, I realized I wanted to care about anything as much as they did about music. A tear ran down my cheek as the last note hung softly, like a butterfly might hang on air. I decided right then that some things in life were much too beautiful not to cry about. This, I now knew, was one of them.

Hold your arrow and be focused to your game; the dart board is always in front of you not in back.

What is inspiring you to go back to the start What is inspiring you to throw away your art You’re the only one who can handle the dart

Endless miles She had walked endless miles, She had stood over countless emotional piles, Finally she had arrived there where all journeys ended, Where life nothing defended, Because here smiles emerged from the seeds of pain, Here hopes were bred by time and never slain, Life developed wings of hope and certainty, Where desires shared with reality a new fraternity, Because forlorn ceased here, pain became meaningless, It was a place with miles ceaseless, Here minds ruled with hearts, And cupid indiscriminately shot his darts, To pierce all alike, Causing raptures of smiles and only creating realities that you like, And after walking endless miles she was here now, Here, where she can forever live under the rainbow and its colourful bow, To feel everything yet feel what she wants to feel, her deeply desired sentiment, For which she walked endless miles, because to her it everything meant, And to be here you need not follow any precept or diktat, Just be true to yourself and follow your instinctive nostrum and believe in one fact, That to be there where you want to be, you will walk endless miles, Because you seek that true union with your deepest smiles.

Stars from the last night It was a vast and endless desert, Of sand, of dust, of the unforgiving sun, Life crawled on its belly and ever effort hurt, Yet life ventured to fulfil what yesterday was left undone, The sand storm blew from every end, Life was caught in its middle, It had nowhere to go, though it had a universe to defend, I watched life pitted against all forces that prevented it from solving the riddle, The dust, the storm, connived with the hot Sun, And they all held life in its cage of atrocities, While life only thought of the universe whose affairs it had to run, So, it heaved its chest and breathed in all the adversities, And blew it at these forces evil, In seconds the dust settled, the storm turned calm and the Sun shone humbly, Because if life wishes to be; it can be the meanest devil, But that is not what it fancies for it has universe to manage and it wants to do so proudly, Life that deals with million adversities, sees storms of dust as nature’s vanities, Because life that thrives everywhere cannot be contained in cages of temporary storms, Life shall always reward the victor who fulfils his/her duties, And is never scared of anything no matter how loud the alarms, That is why it lives in the desert of dust and sand too, Where everything is against its existence, But life shall do what it has to do, while the desert of savagery will do what it has to do, And there shall be neither any hand nor any role of providence, For life that believes in love and equality of all sorts, Will surmount every peak of resistance no matter how high, And shoot itself at the the desert, at the storm, like brave darts, That only love one thing, one purpose, that to fly, So, I saw life wrestling with storm, with dust, with the desert, and even the Sun, They all held her down like an animal of sacrifice to be offered to the God’s of vanity, Yet life resisted and cast all these forces away, one by one, And I witnessed desert’s travesty of life’s magnanimity, Whenever you are in the desert and you see the storm coming closer to you, Remember the actual fact, the life is always on your side, As long as you do not believe it is the desert that favours you, Because it takes some wisdom to realise that in the day sky the bright stars of yesternight still reside! Just like in my eyes her dreams, her thoughts are as fresh as ever, That no storm, no time can fade away, Because I love her like life, that is in love forever, And it shall be so, even in the tempest of all sorts, anyhow and anyway! So you brave soldiers of life and love, If you love someone, love her true love her the same in the desert and in the beautiful summer, And do not wait for the providence from above, Life of love is not always calm because in the desert of life, you shall witness a storm that ceases never!

Stars from the last night It was a vast and endless desert, Of sand, of dust, of the unforgiving sun, Life crawled on its belly and every effort hurt, Yet life ventured to fulfil what yesterday was left undone, The sand storm blew from every end, Life was caught in its middle, It had nowhere to go, though it had a universe to defend, I watched life pitted against all forces that prevented it from solving the riddle, The dust, the storm, connived with the hot sun, And they all held life in its cage of atrocities, While life only thought of the universe whose affairs it had to run, So, it heaved its chest and breathed in all the adversities, And blew it at these forces evil, In seconds the dust settled, the storm turned calm and the Sun shone humbly, Because if life wishes to be; it can be the meanest devil, But that is not what it fancies for it has the universe to manage and it wants to do so proudly, Life that deals with million adversities, sees storms of dust as nature’s vanities, Because life that thrives everywhere cannot be contained in cages of temporary storms, Life shall always reward the victor who fulfils his/her duties, And is never scared of anything no matter how loud the alarms, That is why it lives in the desert of dust and sand too, Where everything is against its existence, But life shall do what it has to do, while the desert of savagery will do what it has to do, And there shall be neither any hand nor any role of providence, For life that believes in love and equality of all sorts, Will surmount every peak of resistance no matter how high, And shoot itself at the the desert, at the storm, like brave darts, That only love one thing, one purpose, that to fly, So, I saw life wrestling with storm, with dust, with the desert, and even the Sun, They all held her down like an animal of sacrifice to be offered to the God’s of vanity, Yet life resisted and cast all these forces away, one by one, And I witnessed desert’s travesty of life’s magnanimity, Whenever you are in the desert and you see the storm coming closer to you, Remember the actual fact, the life is always on your side, As long as you do not believe it is the desert that favours you, Because it takes some wisdom to realise that in the sky of the day the bright stars of yesternight still reside! Just like in my eyes her dreams, her thoughts are as fresh as ever, That no storm, no time can fade away, Because I love her like life, that is in love forever, And it shall be so, even in the tempest of all sorts, anyhow and anyway! So you brave soldiers of life and love, If you love someone, love her true love her the same in the desert and in the beautiful summer, And do not wait for the providence from above, Life of love is not always calm because in the desert of life, you shall witness a storm that ceases never!

If this now broken relationship was Your best, You wouldn’t have kept me from it. And if it is Your best sometime in the future, the enemy won’t be able to keep us apart. But for now, I have peace that there’s a purpose for this brokenness. I don’t need to control it. I’m just going to embrace it as good for today. Shield me from the enemy’s darts of doubt, discouragement, and division. Surround me with your reassurance, inspiration, and unity. Make me brave. Make me steadfast. Thank You for the certainty of Your protection. Amen.