Fork In The Road Love Quotes

Drugs to me have always been a pretty girl with a sly smile beckoning me with a finger down the dark path of a fork in the road.

If you ever find yourself presented with a fork in the road of life and you do not know the correct direction, close your eyes and listen to your heart. I have found more adventure, more love, more happiness, and more life by listening to who I am, rather than attempting to tell myself.

But there is a definite fork in the road with trauma. We can use it to make ourselves and others better by learning from it, or it can use us to make our lives and every life we touch worse by becoming a slave to it. My time had come to decide which way I was going to go.

At the critical juncture in all human relationships, there is only one question: What would love do now? No other question is relevant, no other question is meaningful, no other question has any importance to your soul.

Pursue some path, however narrow and crooked, in which you can walk with love and reverence. Wherever a man separates from the multitude and goes his own way, there is a fork in the road, though the travelers along the highway see only a gap in the paling.

First of all, it’s impossible not to compare. When you go down a fork in a road, it’s impossible not to think about that other path. Wonder what your life could have been like…

The Landscape" I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love is no longer those lilacs and roses whose breath filled the broad woods, where the sail of a flame lay at the end of each arrow-straight path. I dreamt of loving. The dream remains, but love is no longer that storm whose white nerve sparked the castle towers, or left the mind unrhymed, or flared an instant, just where the road forked. It is the star struck under my heel in the night. It is the vvord no book on earth defines. It is the foam on the wave, the cloud in the sky. As they age, all things grow rigid and bright. The streets fall nameless, and the knots untie. Now, with this landscape, I fix; I shine.

I pass a construction site, abandoned for the night, and a few blocks later, the playground of the elementary school my son attended, the metal sliding board gleaming under a streetlamp and the swings stirring in the breeze. There's an energy to these autumn nights that touches something primal inside of me. Something from long ago. From my childhood in western Iowa. I think of high school football games and the stadium lights blazing down on the players. I smell ripening apples, and the sour reek of beer from keg parties in the cornfields. I feel the wind in my face as I ride in the bed of an old pickup truck down a country road at night, dust swirling in the taillights and the entire span of my life yawning out ahead o me. It's the beautiful thing about youth. There's a weightlessness that permeates everything because no damning choices have been made, no paths committed to, and the road forking out ahead is pure, unlimited potential. I love my life, but I haven't felt that lightness of being in ages. Autumn nights like this are as close as I get.

Lines that seemed unconnected gradually becomes part of a confession that had at its center rooms in the burning heat of August, where something has taken place, clearly sexual, but it is also the vacant streets of rural Texas, roads, forgotten friends, the slap of hands of rifle slings and forked pennants limp at parades. There are condoms, sun-faded cars, soiled menus with misspellings, a kind of pyre on which he had laid his life. That was why he seemed so pure – he had given all. Everyone lies about their lives, but he had not lied about his. He had made of it a noble lament, through it always running this thing you have had, that you will always have, but can never have. (There stood Erechteus, polished limbs and greaves....come to me, Hellas, I love for your touch.) I had met him at a party and only managed to say, – I read your beautiful poem.

There are moments in every girl's Life that are bigger than we know at the time. When you look back, you can say oh, that was one of those life-changing, fork in the road moments and I didn't even see it coming. I had no idea. And then there are the moments that you know are big. That whatever you do next, there will be an impact. Your life could go in one of two directions. Do or die. Enter this was one of those moments. Big. They didn't get much bigger than this.

My feet take me up the road to the gate, and through it. Just inside the gate the road forks. I ignore the Ridge House road and choose instead the narrow dirt road that climbs around the hill to the right. John Wightman, whose cottage sits at the end of it, died fifteen years ago. He will not be up to protest my walking in his ruts. It is a road I have walked hundreds of times, a lovely lost tunnel through the trees, busy this morning with birds and little shy rustling things, my favorite road anywhere.

— and then you’re in serious trouble, very serious trouble, and you know it, finally, deadly serious trouble, because this Substance you thought was your one true friend, that you gave up all for, gladly, that for so long gave you relief from the pain of the Losses your love of that relief caused, your mother and lover and god and compadre, has finally removed its smily-face mask to reveal centerless eyes and a ravening maw, and canines down to here, it’s the Face In The Floor, the grinning root-white face of your worst nightmares, and the face is your own face in the mirror, now, it’s you, the Substance has devoured or replaced and become you, and the puke-, drool-and Substance-crusted T-shirt you’ve both worn for weeks now gets torn off and you stand there looking and in the root-white chest where your heart (given away to It) should be beating, in its exposed chest’s center and center-less eyes is just a lightless hole, more teeth, and a beckoning taloned hand dangling something irresistible, and now you see you’ve been had, screwed royal, stripped and fucked and tossed to the side like some stuffed toy to lie for all time in the posture you land in. You see now that It’s your enemy and your worst personal nightmare and the trouble It’s gotten you into is undeniable and you still can’t stop. Doing the Substance now is like attending Black Mass but you still can’t stop, even though the Substance no longer gets you high. You are, as they say, Finished. You cannot get drunk and you cannot get sober; you cannot get high and you cannot get straight. You are behind bars; you are in a cage and can see only bars in every direction. You are in the kind of a hell of a mess that either ends lives or turns them around. You are at a fork in the road that Boston AA calls your Bottom, though the term is misleading, because everybody here agrees it’s more like someplace very high and unsupported: you’re on the edge of something tall and leaning way out forward….

I’d never been with anyone like Marlboro Man. He was attentive--the polar opposite of aloof--and after my eighteenth-month-long college relationship with my freshman love Collin, whose interest in me had been hampered by his then-unacknowledged sexual orientation, and my four-year run with less-than-affectionate J, attentive was just the drug I needed. Not a day passed that Marlboro Man--my new cowboy love--didn’t call to say he was thinking of me, or he missed me already, or he couldn’t wait to see me again. Oh, the beautiful, unbridled honesty. We loved taking drives together. He knew every inch of the countryside: every fork in the road, every cattle guard, every fence, every acre. Ranchers know the country around them. They know who owns this pasture, who leases that one, whose land this county road passes through, whose cattle are on the road by the lake. It all looked the same to me, but I didn’t care. I’d never been more content to ride in the passenger seat of a crew-cab pickup in all my life. I’d never ridden in a crew-cab pickup in all my life. Never once. In fact, I’d never personally known anyone who’d driven a pickup; the boys from my high school who drove pickups weren’t part of my scene, and in their spare time they were needed at home to contribute to the family business. Either that, or they were cowboy wannabes--the kind that only wore cowboy hats to bars--and that wasn’t really my type either. For whatever reason, pickup trucks and I had never once crossed paths. And now, with all the time I was spending with Marlboro Man, I practically lived in one.

The emotional equivalent of jet lag is the end of a love affair and yet you, foolish and besotted lover, won’t let go. You’re still keeping time by his sun and moon, waking when he wakes, and sleeping only when he closes his eyes.

You can love truly, without conditions, without agenda, without a fork in the road, without disapproval, without fear, without obligation. You can love someone with a different ideology, different religious conviction, different sexual identity, ideas, background, ethnicity, opinions, different anything. You can love someone society condemns. You can love someone the church condemns. You have no other responsibility than to represent Jesus well, which should leave that person feeling absurdly loved, welcomed, cherished. There is no other end game. You are not anyone’s savior; you are a sister.

There are no roads near or far. Where every twist or every turn is ever far. This heart wants to let it go. These tatters don’t you try to sew. The road we walk, many times forks into two. At every step we find love, at another step it leaves us blue. Still this life doesn’t even stop for a second, These waves of time doesn’t even stop for a second. This loneliness becomes the air I breathe. I don’t know what to do. The threads are in tangle, I straighten them out. Follow the heart you dreamer, it tells the truth have no doubt. There is a restlessness in my hopes, a dream rests on my closed eyes. This longing, I had put it to sleep, once again, it’s aching to rise. Which road you want to take? Why don’t you know my crazy heart? Still this life doesn’t even stop for a second, These waves of time doesn’t even stop for a second. This loneliness becomes the air I breathe. I don’t know what to do.

This is not a fork in the road, I realize. It’s just the road. There’s no Story A and Story B. There’s one, imperfect, meandering direction.

Ward, do you think we’ll have time to ride this afternoon? I’d love to go over some of the old trails with you,” Erica asked, smiling at him over the assortment of pastries and wedding cake in the lodge’s dining room. Ward fought the urge to growl his reply that he had an even better idea. He’d love to stuff her into Ralph Cummins’s taxi, slam the door, and instruct Ralph to hit the gas and not slow down until he reached Palo Alto, where Erica was currently living. Once the taxi was out of sight, he’d go down to the bottom of the road to Silver Creek Ranch and lock the gates. With a padlock. Instead, he shoveled in a forkful of the wedding cake Roo had baked and pretended not to hear. He’d been doing a lot of that.

In the end, everything happens for a reason. Paths are meant to be crossed for a higher purpose than what we realize at the moment. Life for everyone goes on. This is just a fork in the road that has taken me for a slight detour. Tomorrow I’ll pick up a new map and set my sights on a new direction.

Sam came to a fork in the road. One sign said 'SLAMMED DOORS, Path of Discouragement. Continue doing what you're doing.' The other sign said 'OPEN DOORS, Path of Change. Do something different.' And so he was presented with a choice. It was a "no-brainer" to choose the path of "OPEN DOORS." But the question became, 'What to do different?

It’s the beautiful thing about youth. There’s a weightlessness that permeates everything because no damning choices have been made, no paths committed to, and the road forking out ahead is pure, unlimited potential. I love my life, but I haven’t felt that lightness of being in ages. Autumn nights like this are as close as I get.

One road began with logic and science. I had a fondness for this road. It was clean and unambiguous, free from the messy chaos of emotion. But the Mysterious Stranger inviting me down this road had caused me to suspect that the randomness and chance lurking beneath the surface led to cosmic indifference, thence to nihilism and despair, and ended with death. The other road began with death. A great cross cast a shadow across the fork. On it hung a bleeding, dying God, a human parchment upon whom was written an unbelievable message of love and forgiveness. This road was messy and laden with emotion. But beyond the death was the promise of redemption and meaning. Life with a purpose. I chose the second road.

In our homes, where we work, in our friendships, we come inevitably to a fork in the road where we must decide, “Will I forgive that?” If the answer is yes, we go forward together in love. If we choose “no, I will not forgive,” at that point we will tend to amplify the fault we observe to excuse our withdrawal into bitterness. Everyone loses—and the gospel most of all.

Like a vein of hard coal, it was the strike We fantasized, the pocket of sure reward we sidestepped the road- blocks for In Southwest Virginia, seamed in its hillside Above the north fork of the Holston River. One afternoon before Christmas In 1953, we crossed the bridge from Tennessee on a whiskey run, Churchill and Bevo Hammond and Philbeck and I, All home for the holidays. On the back road where they chased us, we left the Sheriff's Patrol in their own dust, And washed ours down with Schlitz on the way home. Jesus, it’s so ridiculous, and full of self-love, The way we remember ourselves, and the dust we leave... Remember me as you will, but remember me once Slide-wheeling around the curves, letting it out on the other side of the line.

I feel like I am at a fork in the road of life. Combatting for answers I feel impotent and close my eyes to pray to the Almighty-- give me strength God, give me strength. I do not want to fall. But I also know I am tripping here. I cannot hide it anymore. I am losing out on my strength to go on. Please—I say out loud in my shaky voice— PLEASE, be with me. I have been stranded enough. You also don’t leave my side. Please don’t. Tears start to trickle down my eyes as if the oceans have decided to make their exit through them. I open my eyes and happen to see myself in the mirror afront-- once a glow-emanating expressive face, now, a deadpan face only emanating sorrow.

To new love, new friends, and to family: who knows where the line is that distinguishes one from the other? I welcome you all into the McKinlay home. Merry Christmas.’ ‘Merry Christmas.’ The chorus of voices paused to sip champagne, then there was silence except for the clatter of knives and forks against china. It was late as the last guests left, Isabella shrieking with laughter, being helped into Lionel’s Maserati having drunk too much, insisting that he drive extra slowly despite the main road being clear now.

You will not have your time again but each tomorrow is a chance to walk down a different street take a different fork in the road or the same fork and there, in the last place you thought to look - you will love yourself you will forgive yourself - You Will Find Yourself

forks in the road. Going left, and only later realizing that if you’d gone right everything in your life would have been different. Split-second decisions—or ones you had the chance to consider for years. The choice of who to love, what to do, whether to stay together…

Do not stand before the fork in the road with indecisive decisions!