Invisible Cord Quotes

The cord, a familiar voice said. Remember your lifeline, dummy! Suddenly there was a tug in my lower back. The current pulled at me, but it wasn't carrying me away anymore. I imagined the string in my back keeping me tied to the shore. "Hold on, Seaweed Brain." It was Annabeth's voice, much clearer now. "You're not getting away from me that easily." The cord strengthened. I could see Annabeth now- standing barefoot above me on the canoe lake pier. I'd fallen out of my canoe. That was it. She was reaching out her hand to haul me up, and she was trying not to laugh. She wore her orange camp T-shirt and jeans. Her hair was tucked up in her Yankees cap, which was strange because that should have made her invisible. "You are such an idiot sometimes." She smiled. "Come on. Take my hand." Memories came flooding back to me- sharper and more colorful. I stopped dissolving. My name was Percy Jackson. I reached up and took Annabeth's hand.

I often wished that more people understood the invisible side of things. Even the people who seemed to understand, didn't really.

I was too dazed to follow right away, because there was something new happening, a wheel inside my heart I’d never noticed before, and it was spinning so fast it made me dizzy. And the farther away she got, the faster it spun, like there was an invisible cord unreeling from it that stretched between us, and if she went too far it would snap - and kill me. I wondered if this strange, sweet pain was love.

The cord pulled taut and she rebounded, flying back up before falling again. As her velocity slowed, she opened her eyes and found herself dangling at the end of the cord, about five feet above Jace. He was grinning. "Nice," he said. "As graceful as a falling snowflake." "Was I screaming?" She asked, genuinely curious. "You know, on the way down." He nodded. "Thankfully no one's home, or they would have assumed I was murdering you." "Ha. You can't even reach me." She kicked out a leg and spun lazily in midair. Jace's eyes glinted. "Want to bet?" Clary knew that expression. "No," she said quickly. "Whatever you're going to do-" But he'd already done it. When Jace moved fast, his individual movements were almost invisible. She saw his hand go to his belt, and then something flashed in the air. She heard the sound of parting fabric as the cord above her head was sheared through. Released, she fell freely, too surprised to scream- directly into Jace's arms. The force knocked him backward, and they sprawled together onto one of the padded floor mats, Clary on top of him. He grinned up at her. "Now," he said, "that was much better. You didn't scream at all." "I didn't get the chance." She was breathless, and not just from the impact of the fall. Being sprawled on top of Jace, feeling his body against hers, made her hands shake and her heart beat faster.

It’s the spark of love’s memory inside your heart that recognizes them and most of the time they recognize you too. That spark is the magnet that always brings us back to each other. Like glue, it binds us together with an invisible cord from lifetime to lifetime, soul mate to soul mate.

And the farther away she got, the faster it spun, like there was an invisible cord unreeling from it that stretched between us, and if she went too far it would snap—and kill me. I wondered if this strange, sweet pain was love.

I had learned quickly that life doesn't always go the way I want it to, and that's okay. I still plod on.

She put her arms around me again and we held each other for a long moment, her head on my shoulder, breath warm on my neck, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to close all the little gaps that existed between our bodies, to collapse into one being. But then she pulled away and kissed my forehead and started back toward the others. I was too dazed to follow right away, because there was something new happening, a wheel inside my heart I’d never noticed before, and it was spinning so fast it made me dizzy. And the farther away she got, the faster it spun, like there was an invisible cord unreeling from it that stretched between us, and if she went too far it would snap—and kill me.

We often fail to see that there is an invisible wall in a relationship - Cord 10, In Between Us!

I once read that there is an invisible thread that connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but will never break. [...] Please don’t let it break, I silently plead to him. I need to know that some cords can’t be cut.

But then she pulled away and kissed my forehead and started back toward the others. I was too dazed to follow right away, because there was something new happening, a wheel inside my heart I’d never noticed before, and it was spinning so fast it made me dizzy. And the farther away she got, the faster it spun, like there was an invisible cord unreeling from it that stretched between us, and if she went too far it would snap—and kill me. I wondered if this strange, sweet pain was love.

When we try to pick out anything by itself we find that it is bound fast by a thousand invisible cords that cannot be broken, to everything in the universe.

They had some sort of magical power to their love. Nothing that you would ever be able to describe, but when you saw them together there was no denying it. They would look at each other and it was as if there was some invisible cord that connected them completely. Mom would give Dad a smile and he would laugh softly under his breath, always causing her face to redden. He would walk into the room and her whole body would jolt like it had been struck by lightning.

It was something my father said to me once after he read a piece I’d written. I’ve never forgotten it. He said all truly good writing—fiction or nonfiction—has a heartbeat, a life force that comes from the writer, like an invisible cord connecting them to the reader. Without it, the work is dead on arrival.

The weekend was a much-needed breath of fresh air; Monday always seemed to not only take that breath right back, but add a few extra pounds to my shoulders as well.

Somehow the realization stiffened my nerve. We weren’t sixteen anymore. We didn’t have to hang around like there was an invisible umbilical cord tethering us together. We’d gone our separate ways and all survived.

The video was still playing, although I didn't know why. It seemed as if the able-bodied dancers were mocking me.

I was too dazed to follow right away, because there was something new happening, a wheel inside my heart I'd never noticed before, and it was spinning so fast it made me dizzy. And the farther away she got, the faster it spun, like there was an invisible cord unreeling from it that stretched between us, and if she went too far it would snap — and kill me. I wondered if this strange, sweet pain was love.

The Red String of Fate is an old East-Asian belief. It is said the heavens tie a red cord around the little fingers of those ordained to be together. It is an invisible thread that connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.

WHERE ONCE THE WATERS ON YOUR FACE Where once the waters of your face Spun to my screws, your dry ghost blows, The dead turns up its eye; Where once the mermen through your ice Pushed up their hair, the dry wind steers Through salt and root and roe. Where once your green knots sank their splice Into the tided cord, there goes The green unraveller, His scissors oiled, his knife hung loose To cut the channels at their source And lay the wet fruits low. Invisible, your clocking tides Break on the lovebeds of the weeds; The weed of love’s left dry; There round about your stones the shades Of children go who, from their voids, Cry to the dolphined sea. Dry as a tomb, your coloured lids Shall not be latched while magic glides Sage on the earth and sky; There shall be corals in your beds, There shall be serpents in your tides, Till all our sea-faiths die.

Some things you carry around inside you as though they were part of your blood and bones, and when that happens, there’s nothing you can do to forget …But I had never been much of a believer. If anything, I believed that things got worse before they got better. I believed good people suffered... people who have faith were so lucky; you didn’t want to ruin it for them. You didn’t want to plant doubt where there was none. You had to treat suck individuals tenderly and hope that some of whatever they were feeling rubs off on you Those who love you will love you forever, without questions or boundaries or the constraints of time. Daily life is real, unchanging as a well-built house. But houses burn; they catch fire in the middle of the night. The night is like any other night of disaster, with every fact filtered through a veil of disbelief. The rational world has spun so completely out of its orbit, there is no way to chart or expect what might happen next At that point, they were both convinced that love was a figment of other people’s imaginations, an illusion fashioned out of smoke and air that really didn’t exist Fear, like heat, rises; it drifts up to the ceiling and when it falls down it pours out in a hot and horrible rain True love, after all, could bind a man where he didn’t belong. It could wrap him in cords that were all but impossible to break Fear is contagious. It doubles within minutes; it grows in places where there’s never been any doubt before The past stays with a man, sticking to his heels like glue, invisible and heartbreaking and unavoidable, threaded to the future, just as surely as day is sewn to night He looked at girls and saw only sweet little fuckboxes, there for him to use, no hearts involved, no souls, and, most assuredly no responsibilities. Welcome to the real world. Herein is the place where no one can tell you whether or not you’ve done the right thing. I could tell people anything I wanted to, and whatever I told them, that would be the truth as far as they were concerned. Whoever I said I was, well then, that’s who id be The truths by which she has lived her life have evaporated, leaving her empty of everything except the faint blue static of her own skepticism. She has never been a person to question herself; now she questions everything Something’s, are true no matter how hard you might try to bloc them out, and a lie is always a lie, no matter how prettily told You were nothing more than a speck of dust, good-looking dust, but dust all the same Some people needed saving She doesn’t want to waste precious time with something as prosaic as sleep. Every second is a second that belongs to her; one she understands could well be her last Why wait for anything when the world is so cockeyed and dangerous? Why sit and stare into the mirror, too fearful of what may come to pass to make a move? At last she knows how it feels to take a chance when everything in the world is at stake, breathless and heedless and desperate for more She’ll be imagining everything that’s out in front of them, road and cloud and sky, all the elements of a future, the sort you have to put together by hand, slowly and carefully until the world is yours once more

As I wander through the dark, encountering difficulties, I am aware of encouraging voices that murmur from the spirit realm. I sense a holy passion pouring down from the springs of Infinity. I thrill to music that beats with the pulses of God. Bound to suns and planets by invisible cords, I feel the flame of eternity in my soul.

Dancing with a spinal cord injury is a challenge like no other, but I aspired to prove to myself that I could still be phenomenal dancer even with an SCI

The pain of Mother was the pain of mine ,the umbilical cord reappearing to the invisible but hearty seen connection between mother and son.

The doctor cut the fleshly cord that connected us, but an invisible one has taken its place. I begin to suspect that this one can be neither cut nor broken.

I look at my mother. I can feel her tugging at the invisible line between us. Yanking it from afar. The umbilical cord. I plug my belly button with my finger. I miss her and I need her, and she's me, or a part of me at least, and I haven't fully absorbed her yet. I haven't gleaned all the woman-ness from her. Which is what a daughter does. Whose daughter am I now? Where has she gone?

Suppose a song is playing on your phone. If you use an earphone, it will feel like the song is playing in your head. Similarly, your mind is not in your head. Mind is an invisible body which is at a distance from your physical body, but it is connected to your head through a cord. If you disturb this cord, you can have “out of the body experiences”. You can see your own body from outside you.

She felt no pain, the men in surgical scrubs said, but how could they know? Did they realize that another heart bled as she fought for life? Did they realize the invisible cord that connected her to me, was still firmly in place despite the only physical one being cut up? Or did they see those dreams as she did- those years of school, college, fun, happiness and childlike love that would never happen, ever, between them? Did they know, I wanted to call her Hope?

For the first time since I had arrived in America I had an almost physical sense of being in the wrong place, as if I were being tugged by invisible cords to somewhere a million miles away. At one point I felt so bad that when I walked into my bathroom and saw a large chestnut-colored cockroach on the sink I didn’t scream, like I had previously, but briefly considered making it a pet, like a character in a children’s novel. And then I realized that I was now officially thinking like a madwoman and sprayed it with Raid instead.

Because these two electrons are “entangled,” that is, their wave functions beat in unison, their wave functions are connected by an invisible “thread” or umbilical cord. Whatever happens to one automatically has an effect on the other. (This means, in some sense, that what happens to us automatically affects things instantaneously in distant corners of the universe, since our wave functions were probably entangled at the beginning of time. In some sense there is a web of entanglement that connects distant corners of the universe, including us.)

The sense of being connected somewhere is an important anchor in our lives. Without it, we can feel disconnected, lost, and ungrounded in the world. This is sometimes reflected in images of floating in a dark space, like an astronaut whose connecting cord is broken. Others describe it as drifting at sea, like a piece of flotsam. This feeling is often carried throughout life unless efforts are made to change the situation.

Well, psychologists say there’s a second umbilical cord, an invisible one, an emotional one, which ties you to your parents for the whole time you’re a kid. Then, one day, you have a row with your mum if you’re a girl, or your dad if you’re a boy, and that argument cuts your second cord. Then, and only then, are you ready to go off into the big wide world and be an adult on your own terms. It’s like a rite-of-passage thing.

I looked back and forth between them, feeling the heat of their anger, the unspoken words swelling in the air like smoke. Jerry took a slow sip from his beer and lit another cigarette. "You don't know anything about that little girl," he told Nona. "You're just jealous because Cap belongs to her now." I could see Nona's heartbeat flutter beneath her t-shirt, the cords tightening in her neck. "Her mommy and daddy might have paid for him," she whispered. "But he's mine." I waited for Jerry to cave in to her, to apologize, to make things right between them. But he held her gaze, unwavering. "He's not." Nona stubbed her cigarette out on the barn floor, then stood. "If you don't believe me," she whispered, "I'll show you." My sister crossed the barn to Cap's stall and clicked her tongue at him. His gold head appeared in the doorway and Nona swung the stall door open. "Come on out." she told him. Don't!" I said, but she didn't pause. Cap took several steps forward until he was standing completely free in the barn. I jumped up, blocking the doorway so that he couldn't bolt. Jerry stood and widened himself beside me, stretching out his arms. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked. Nona stood beside Cap's head and lifted her arms as though she was holding an invisible lead rope. When she began to walk, Cap moved alongside her, matching his pace to hers. Whoa," Nona said quietly and Cap stopped. My sister made small noises with her tongue, whispering words we couldn't hear. Cap's ears twitched and his weight shifted as he adjusted his feet, setting up perfectly in showmanship form. Nona stepped back to present him to us, and Jerry and I dropped our arms to our sides. Ta da!" she said, clapping her hands at her own accomplishment. Very impressive," Jerry said in a low voice. "Now put the pony away." Again, Nona lifted her hands as if holding a lead rope, and again, Cap followed. She stepped into him and he turned on his heel, then walked beside her through the barn and back into his stall. Once he was inside, Nona closed the door and held her hands out to us. She hadn't touched him once. Now," she said evenly. "Tell me again what isn't mine." Jerry sank back into his chair, cracking open a fresh beer. "If that horse was so important to you, maybe you shouldn't have left him behind to be sold off to strangers." Nona's face constricted, her cheeks and neck darkening in splotches of red. "Alice, tell him," she whispered. "Tell him that Cap belongs to me." Sheila Altman could practice for the rest of her life, and she would never be able to do what my sister had just done. Cap would never follow her blindly, never walk on water for her. But my eyes traveled sideways to Cap's stall where his embroidered halter hung from its hook. If the Altmans ever moved to a different town, they would take Cap with them. My sister would never see him again. It wouldn't matter what he would or wouldn't do for her. My sister waited a moment for me to speak, and when I didn't, she burst into tears, her shoulders heaving, her mouth wrenching open. Jerry and I glanced at each other, startled by the sudden burst of emotion. You can both go to hell," Nona hiccuped, and turned for the house. "Right straight to hell.

At this point, the sequence of my memories is disrupted. I sank into a chaos of brief, incoherent and bizarre hallucinations, in which the grotesque and the horrible kept close company. Prostrate, as if I were being garrotted by invisible cords, I floundered in anguish and dread, oppressively ridden by the most unbridled nightmares. A whole series of monsters and avatars swarmed in the shadows, coming to life amid draughts of sulphur and phosphorus like an animated fresco painted on the moving wall of sleep. There followed a turbulent race through space. I soared, grasped by the hair by an invisible hand of will: an icy and powerful hand, in which I felt the hardness of precious stones, and which I sensed to be the hand of Ethal. Dizziness was piled upon dizziness in that flight to the abyss, under skies the colour of camphor and salt, skies whose nocturnal brilliance had a terrible limpidity. I was spun around and around, in bewildering confusion, above deserts and rivers. Great expanses of sand stretched into the distance, mottled here and there by monumental shadows. At times we would pass over cities: sleeping cities with obelisks and cupolas shining milk-white in the moonlight, between metallic palm-trees. In the extreme distance, amid bamboos and flowering mangroves, luminous millennial pagodas descended towards the water on stepped terraces.

Asking Wolf to couples' skate is like bungee jumping without a cord-it may be the bravest thing I've ever done in my life. Or it could be the stupidest. There's only one way to find out. I look him dead in the eyes, summoning up both my courage and my sense of reckless abandon, but before I can even speak one syllable- "Oh!" he says, looking over one shoulder and dropping his hands. "Kaitlyn's free now. I gotta get over there!" He rushes off, blowing me an air kiss. My mouth should get used to falling open when he's around, either from his good looks or from his total lack of comprehension of all things polite. Did that just happen? My face in my palms, I lean on my elbows against the rail, invisible, and fall into an intoxicating state of self-pity.

Please, Holy Mother God,” I whispered in prayer, “help me cut the invisible cords that bind me, and set me free. Give me the inner strength to let go of all that I have created up until now, on every level, and which no longer reflects the highest path for me, and for those I love and serve. Help calm my more masculine energies so I can settle into my own divine feminine nature and cool the angry fires of hurt and fear that have burned in my heart for so long.” After making my prayerful request, I got up and lit a candle to the Divine Mother, to say “thank you” for hearing me. I was ready to surrender. I knew it was time to release control over my life and let God take over. I spoke my intention aloud: “This life of mine is now finished. My present way is no longer serving me or allowing my greater Spirit to express through me. I ask for the cocoon to break open and free my true divine light. I surrender all attachments on all levels to the past and am now ready for what the Universe has in store for me. And so it is.” At that moment time stood still. I knew my intention was heard and registered by the heavens, and that my request would be honored and met with divine support. I sensed an inner shift take place in me. I didn’t feel euphoric. I didn’t even feel happy. Rather, I felt somber and quiet in spite of the thousand sounds swirling around me, the Universe saying, Okay, get ready. The next morning, I suddenly had a powerful intuitive hit from my Higher Self that said, “Sonia, it is time to heal your life, and the only way to do that is to walk the Camino de Santiago. And go alone.

bombs poured down from the sky exploding across trachimbrod in bursts of light and heat those watching the festivities hollered ran frantically they jumped into the bubbling splashing frantically dynamic water not after the sack of gold buy to save themselves they stayed under as long as they could they surfaced to seize air and look for loved ones my safran picked up his wife and carried her like a newlywed into the water which seemed amid the falling trees and hackling crackling explosions the safest place hundreds of bodies poured into the brod that river with my name I embraced them with open arms come to me come I wanted to save them all to save everybody from everybody the bombs rained from the sky and it was not the explosions or scattering shrapnel that would be our death not the heckling cinders not the laughing debris but all of the bodies bodies flailing and grabbing hold of one another bodies looking something to hold on to my safran lost sight of his wife who was carried deeper into me by the pull of the bodies the silent shrieks were carried in bubbles to the surface where they popped PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE the kicking in zosha’s belly became more and more PLEASE PLEASE the baby refused to die like this PLEASE the bombs came down cackling smoldering and my safran was able to break free from the human mass and float downstream over the small falls to clearer waters zosha was pulled down PLEASE and the baby refusing to die like this was pulled up and out of her body turning the waters around her red she surfaced like a bubble to the light to oxygen to life to life WAWAWAWAWAWA she cried she was perfectly healthy and she would have lived except for the umbilical cord that pulled her back under toward her mother who was barely conscious but conscious of the cord and tried to break it with her hands and then bite it with her teeth but could not it would not be broken and she died with her perfectly healthy nameless baby in her arms she held it to her chest the crowd pulled itself into itself long after the bombing ceased the confused the frightened the desperate mass of babies children teenagers adults elderly all pulled at each other to survive but pulled each other into me drowning each other killing each other the bodies began to rise one at a time until I couldn’t be seen through all of the bodies blue skin open white eyes I was invisible under them I was the carcass they were the butterflies white eyes blue skin this is what we’ve done we’ve killed our own babies to save them

Didn’t I advise you to forget the stone? Didn’t I tell you it would be mine? Look at everything you’ve lost.” He threw the sack over the ornate teal stone, pulled a cord tight around the sack’s opening, and lifted it from its resting place without placing a single finger on it. “And look at everything I’ve gained.” His sailors laughed with him. Camille spotted her straggly-beared attacker. A fist-sized bruise from Samuel’s boot discolored his jaw. Camille discreetly scanned the cascade, but didn’t see Ira or Samuel. She returned her stare to McGreenery; only this time, it was she who smiled. “I remember what you said. But I have the real map, don’t I?” She held it up for him to see as the second wave of sparks, invisible to everyone else, rolled back over the map and erased the riddle. “Samuel copied the diagram for you, but there were things the map wouldn’t show him. Things only the one worthy of the stone could see. And he overlooked something else, something he had no reason to believe was important.” McGreenery came around the shrine, the sack’s cord cutting so deeply into his flesh, the skin whitened. Camille twirled the map around to show the glowing mark. “This is the mark of Umandu.” She stepped aside so he could see the amber stone aglow at her heel. Shock drowned McGreenery’s simper. “And you can go to hell.

Le beau dialogue que Swann entendit entre le piano et le violon au commencement du dernier morceau! La suppression des mots humains, loin d'y laisser régner la fantaisie, comme on aurait pu croire, l'en avait éliminée ; jamais le langage parlé ne fut si inflexiblement nécessité, ne connut à ce point la pertinence des questions, l'évidence des réponses. D'abord le piano solitaire se plaignit, comme un oiseau abandonné de sa compagne ; le violon l'entendit, lui répondit comme d'un arbre voisin. C'était comme au commencement du monde, comme s'il n'y avait encore eu qu'eux deux sur la terre, ou plutôt dans ce monde fermé à tout le reste, construit par la logique d'un créateur et où ils ne seraient jamais que tous les deux : cette sonate. Est-ce un oiseau, est-ce l'âme incomplète encore de la petite phrase, est-ce une fée, invisible et gémissant dont le piano ensuite redisait tendrement la plainte? Ses cris étaient si soudains que le violoniste devait se précipiter sur son archet pour les recueillir. Merveilleux oiseau! le violoniste semblait vouloir le charmer, l'apprivoiser, le capter. Déjà il avait passé dans son âme, déjà la petite phrase évoquée agitait comme celui d'un médium le corps vraiment possédé du violoniste. Swann savait qu'elle allait parler encore une fois. Et il s'était si bien dédoublé que l'attente de l'instant imminent où il allait se retrouver en face d'elle le secoua d'un de ces sanglots qu'un beau vers ou une triste nouvelle provoquent en nous, non pas quand nous sommes seuls, mais si nous les apprenons à des amis en qui nous nous apercevons comme un autre dont l'émotion probable les attendrit. Elle reparut, mais cette fois pour se suspendre dans l'air et se jouer un instant seulement, comme immobile, et pour expirer après. Aussi Swann ne perdait-il rien du temps si court où elle se prorogeait. Elle était encore là comme une bulle irisée qui se soutient. Tel un arc-en-ciel, dont l'éclat faiblit, s'abaisse, puis se relève et avant de s'éteindre, s'exalte un moment comme il n'avait pas encore fait : aux deux couleurs qu'elle avait jusque-là laissé paraître, elle ajouta d'autres cordes diaprées, toutes celles du prisme, et les fit chanter. Swann n'osait pas bouger et aurait voulu faire tenir tranquilles aussi les autres personnes, comme si le moindre mouvement avait pu compromettre le prestige surnaturel, délicieux et fragile qui était si près de s'évanouir.

Mine, whispered my Mori as it curled up like a cat after a bowl of milk. Ours, I corrected it, finally understanding my demon’s possessiveness toward its mate. An invisible cord stretched between Nikolas and me, and through it I felt love, a touch of humor, and desire. It filled me with a sense of completeness and intimacy I’d never known was possible. My

The Nice Bloke The Glass Virgin The Invitation The Dwelling Place Feathers in the Fire Pure as the Lily The Invisible Cord The Gambling Man The Tide of Life The Girl The Cinder Path The Man Who Cried The Whip The Black Velvet Gown A Dinner of Herbs The Moth The Parson’s Daughter The Harrogate Secret

Job was a moon madman. At every lunar tide, the desperation of great souls, the dizziness of space only made him into a nubile hemisphere of extraordinary sensitivity. Emotion would swell the air bubble which lived off the walls of his brain and his reason flew away. He flung himself frantically in the mud, his face torn with happiness, his whole being activated by an invisible pointsman, his vocal cords vibrating like reeds. He would buzz from tree to tree, from window to window, like a bee searching for gold bullion. The guttural sea-voice reverberated in his ears, labyrinthine shells, and lost itself in the damp caverns of his skull. There was no more need to speak.

The more I think about Raff, the more I feel a pull toward him, as though there is an invisible energy cord that is pulling us together.

all truly good writing—fiction or nonfiction—has a heartbeat, a life force that comes from the writer, like an invisible cord connecting them to the reader. Without it, the work is dead on arrival.

some invisible cord kept him rooted to the spot.

said all truly good writing—fiction or nonfiction—has a heartbeat, a life force that comes from the writer, like an invisible cord connecting them to the reader. Without it, the work is dead on arrival.

He reached out and tenderly wiped a tear off my cheek with his thumb. “In Chinese legend, two lovers are connected by an invisible red thread around their pinky fingers. The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers from birth, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. The cord might stretch or tangle, but it can never break.” His eyes moved back and forth between mine. “You are on the other end of my thread, Kris. No matter how far apart we are, you’re tied to me. I stretched us and I tangled us and I’m sorry. But I didn’t break us, Kris. We’re still connected.

Dear moon, ⁠ Blood moon. Scorpion moon. Moon with a potent sting. Moon of riotous bloom. Moon of the letting go. Of the going, going, going, gone. Moon of the bittersweet. Of melancholia. Of inevitability. Moon of open palms and whatever comes after the grasping is done. Moon that holds the keys to invisible doors. Moon of my own undoing. ⁠ ⁠ Unfolding moon. Don’t come back moon. Welcome home moon. Moon of liminality and borderlands. Moon of cutting cords. Of loosening my own grip. Of admitting when the doing is done. Of days of honey and days of onion. Moon rising over picnic blankets in the park, and gasping tears in the shower, and the taste of copper and salt.⁠ ⁠ Hello, moon of what the hell now and here you are, as if you never left. Recentering moon. Moon of plaintive howl and puzzle piece heart. Moon of the space that comes when the bargaining has ended and the terms are set. Moon of never again what we were. Moon who knows what we might become but will not say. ⁠ ⁠ Moon of I need to go now and moon of the I’m not going anywhere. Moon of paradox and the space where the weapons are laid down and the hurting is done and also just beginning. Moon who won’t say what she knows. Moon of music with no lyrics and the words waiting for their melody. Of broken hope and shattered heart. ⁠ ⁠ Moon of come cuddle me, please. Of the hard fall and the soft forgiveness. Moon of severed threads. Moon of it has come to this. After all of what has been, it has come to this. ⁠ ⁠ Dear moon, hear my prayer. ⁠ Dear moon, hold me now. ⁠ Dear moon, this meant everything. ⁠ Dear moon, don’t forget what we were. ⁠ Dear moon, remember me. ⁠ Dear moon, don't let me forget myself.

Voyagers, I’ve always wanted to write about you. And now, at 4:41 a.m. on an autumn morning, Words have found their way into my mind. I picture myself like you— Distant from life, Alone, Yet moving towards an unknown destination! Like you, in the early stages of my journey, I could see, I could gather knowledge and transmit it, I was useful and efficient. But sometimes, to keep connected to the world, To be able to stay on course and conserve my energy, I had to shut parts of myself down, To survive, To go blind, to be deaf, to be isolated, and just occasionally signal my existence to the world. The same thing I do, that you do, that so many others do. The boundless reaches of space Have become somewhat more comprehensible through you, Yet the depths of the human soul remain unfathomable, And its pain incurable. We live in an age surrounded by a torrent of information, Yet somehow, we remain lonely and lost. Language has advanced, There are words for nearly everything, Everyone can describe their own state of mind, yet we’re still at war with one another. Earth has turned into a vast ship, Perhaps like Noah’s Ark, With maximum diversity and multiplicity, Yet everyone on this ship plays their own tune, rallies their own cause! Someone steps forward, claiming each individual’s thoughts and personal benefit are like rare pearls to be cherished, While another insists that collective welfare takes precedence, That the needs of the masses outweigh individual desires. Some launch movements to claim their rights, While others start movements to flaunt the rights they’ve acquired. No one knows what they truly want; We’re all still lost. I don’t know how Earth looks from afar— Perhaps like a blueberry-flavored lollipop, A lollipop with a stick, But Earth’s stick is an invisible one made of sorrow. I find something common among all the passengers on this ship, All the inhabitants of this blueberry lollipop: sorrow. A fetus in its mother’s womb is also like a lollipop, But connected by an umbilical cord. As a fetus, Growing in the mother’s womb, Suffering, malnutrition, and physical ailments can be painful for us. If the mother’s state is stable, We may enjoy brief periods of security and calm, but after that, We must endure the pain of separation, Learn how to breathe, And besides the sorrow of leaving security behind, We face new emotions like fear and anger. Later in life, We each take our own path. No matter how much they try to show humans as social creatures, It’s always the individual who walks their own way, who has the freedom to choose, Even if one finds the meaning of their path in joining a group or a collective, it’s their individual choice that put them on that path. Today, people have countless options to join others who are like them, And these options themselves bring confusion, And when you join a group out of confusion, You treat the other groups with hostility. Science, philosophy, religion, politics…each of them has thousands of branches, and each branch Wants to disprove the other, cleanse itself of its shameful past. Freedom of speech has become an excuse for verbal assaults and psychological wounds, Non-violence has become a breeding ground for new and emerging dictators, For heartless sects and brutal factions. Knowledge and science alone cannot save us, Just as religion couldn’t. I don’t want to write about chaos, Life isn’t that disorganized, In some corner of the world, A lover is staring up at his beloved’s window, A child is laughing joyfully. But writing about sorrow, Speaking of chaos and Asking questions can reveal where we stand. Now, we know so much about space, And about the Sun, too. The James Webb telescope has mapped out the cosmos for us, and countless projects are underway for the future, crafted with flawless precision and extraordinary coherence, but the rift between humans remains deep.

That tug against my heart, the painless, invisible cord trying to pull me forward, rips something from me like the shirt being torn from my back, and I scream as part of me is left behind.

Chaque jour, le maître se contentait de le saluer et commençait son cours. Puis il demeurait invisible le reste de la journée et restait muet lors du dîner. Or, ce matin-là, debout près de la rivière argentée, le vieil aveugle lui dit : — Yuko, tu deviendras un poète accompli lorsque, dans ton écriture, tu intégreras les notions de peinture, de calligraphie, de musique et de danse. Et surtout lorsque tu maîtriseras l’art du funambule. Yuko se mit à sourire. Le maître n’avait pas oublié. — Pourquoi l’art du funambule pourrait-il me servir ? Soseki posa sa main sur l’épaule du jeune homme, comme il l’avait déjà fait un mois plus tôt. — Pourquoi ? En vérité, le poète, le vrai poète, possède l’art du funambule. Écrire, c’est avancer mot à mot sur un fil de beauté, le fil d’un poème, d’une œuvre, d’une histoire couchée sur un papier de soie. Écrire, c’est avancer pas à pas, page après page, sur le chemin du livre. Le plus difficile, ce n’est pas de s’élever du sol et de tenir en équilibre, aidé du balancier de sa plume, sur le fil du langage. Ce n’est pas non plus d’aller tout droit, en une ligne continue parfois entrecoupée de vertiges aussi furtifs que la chute d’une virgule, ou que l’obstacle d’un point. Non, le plus difficile, pour le poète, c’est de rester continuellement sur ce fil qu’est l’écriture, de vivre chaque heure de sa vie à hauteur du rêve, de ne jamais redescendre, ne serait-ce qu’un instant, de la corde de son imaginaire. En vérité, le plus difficile, c’est de devenir un funambule du verbe. Yuko remercia le maître de lui enseigner l’art d’une façon si subtile, si belle.

There exists a silken red thread of destiny. It is said that this magical cord may tangle or stretch but never break. When a child is born, that invisible red thread connects the child's soul to all the people - past, present, and future - who will play a part in that child's life. Over time, that thread shortens and tightens, bringing closer and closer those people who are fated to be together.

When we enjoy an intimate connection with a lover, we form invisible cord connections between our chakras into their chakras.

Now at night, I held you and a great fear, wide as all our American generations, took me. Now I personally understood my father and the old mantra - 'Either I can beat him or the police.' I understood it all - the cable wires, the extension cords, the ritual switch. Black people love their children with a kind of obsession. You are all we have, and you come to us endangered. I think we would like to kill you ourselves before seeing you killed by the streets that America made. This is a philosophy of the disembodied, of a people who control nothing, who can protect nothing, who are made to fear not just the criminals among them but the police who lord over them with all the moral authority of a protection racket. It was only after you that I understood this love, that I understood the grip of my mother's hand. She knew that the galaxy itself could kill me, that all of me could be shattered and all of her legacy spilled upon the curb like bum wine. And no one wold be brought to account for this destruction, because my death would not be the fault of any human but the fault of some unfortunate but immutable fact of 'race,' imposed upon an innocent country by the inscrutable judgment of invisible gods.

there was something new happening, a wheel inside my heart I’d never noticed before, and it was spinning so fast it made me dizzy. And the farther away she got, the faster it spun, like there was an invisible cord unreeling from it that stretched between us, and if she went too far it would snap—and kill me. I wondered if this strange, sweet pain was love.

I wanted nothing more than to close all the little gaps that existed between our bodies, to collapse into one being. But then she pulled away and kissed my forehead and started back toward the others. I was too dazed to follow right away, because there was something new happening, a wheel inside my heart I’d never noticed before, and it was spinning so fast it made me dizzy. And the farther away she got, the faster it spun, like there was an invisible cord unreeling from it that stretched between us, and if she went too far it would snap—and kill me. I wondered if this strange, sweet pain was love.

Yehohshua knelt in the shallow water and began a quiet, earnest prayer. Yehuway listened to His son’s words. “Father, I am here beginning the walk to eternal life. Father, I have diligently maintained Your ways and laws in my heart. I have pursued You through the long nights and have nourished Your words in the light. Here I am, waiting for You to speak to me.” As the sun lowered behind the mountain, the shadows lengthened over Yehohshua and Yehohanan. An ethereal energy overtook Yehohshua’ body. The thickening lavender and yellow and red clouds above them suddenly spread open, revealing a patch of blue beyond the clouds’ dome. From the vacant reach Yehohshua stared at the rapid descent of the Ruach Ha Kodesh that took the shape of a dove. The fluttering white image fully covered Yehohshua. Within its opulent cove, bolts of lightning struck the ground. The intense, brief, flashes arced about Yehohshua, silhouetting his body. “You are My beloved son,” Yehuway’s voice transferred out from the multitude of lightning strikes, “with whom I am well pleased.” Yehohanan sank to his knees when he heard the words. The water flowed up to his chin. He lowered his eyes to the depths of the river, catching the sight of a few fish swimming by. Yehohshua’s garment appeared as the wings of an angel beneath the water. Yehohanan also prayed thanks to Yehuway. His long locks of hair unraveled and flowed out from behind him in a tranquil surrender to the events. From the experience, an invisible umbilical cord of purpose united the two men.

This being is the other after the death of the Other - not the same other at all: the other that results from the denial of the Other. The only interaction involved, in reality, belongs to the medium alone: to the machine become invisible. Mechanical automata still played on the difference between man and machine, and on the charm of this difference - something with which today's interactive and simulating automata are no longer concerned. Man and machine have become isomorphic and indifferent to each other: neither is other to the other. The computer has no other. That is why the computer is not intelligent. Intelligence comes to us from the other - always. That is why computers perform so well. Champions of mental arithmetic and idiots savants are autistic - minds for which the other does not exist and which, for that very reason, are endowed with strange powers. This is the strength, too, of the integrated circuit (the power of thought-transference might also be considered in this connection). Such is the power of abstraction. Machines work more quickly because they are unlinked to any otherness. Networks connect them up to one another like an immense umbilical cord joining one intelligence and its twin. Homeostasis between one and the same: all otherness has been confiscated by the machine. Does otherness survive anywhere after being banished from this entire psychodramatic superstructure? Is there a physics as well as a metaphysics of the Other? Is there a dual, not just a dialectical, form of otherness? Is there still a form of the Other as destiny, and not merely as a psychological or social partner of convenience?

There's a legend...that says all couples who are meant to marry are connected by an invisible silver cord. The matchmaking gods tie that cord around their ankles at birth, and in time the gods pull those cords tighter and tighter. Slowly, slowly, over the next twenty or thirty or forty years, they draw the couple toward each other until they meet.

For the first time since I had arrived in America I had an almost physical sense of being in the wrong place, as if I were being tugged by an invisible cords to somewhere a million miles away.

For the first time since I had arrived in America I had an almost physical sense of being in the wrong place, as if I were being tugged by invisible cords to somewhere a million miles away.

Our bodies are life-growers by nature, tied to the moon by some invisible, yet visceral cord. We get to walk through the world in bodies that are mysterious, majestic even, and our intuition as women is pretty off-the-charts.

When you depend on someone or something else to survive, it means that a link, a kind of invisible umbilical cord, is still there between you.

I extended both my apparently empty hands, my invisible strangling cord writhing into position in my left, an unseen Logrus death bolt riding my right. It was one of those times when courtesy demanded professional standards.

To shorten the telling, I shall simply state that in the Sport of that season I saw one of the greatest bird dogs I ever expect to meet. He seemed to be drawn to birds as by some invisible cord. He wasted no time in getting to them. It made no difference where they were, he’d go to them quickly by the shortest possible route. His judgement was uncanny, and his nose a masterpiece. He had enough speed, and splendid endurance. Added to this, he put real punch into his work — and magnificent style into his points. Can more ever be asked! Other dogs might fail to find birds on occasion. Sport never failed to find plenty, even on the very worst days.

He said all truly good writing—fiction or nonfiction—has a heartbeat, a life force that comes from the writer, like an invisible cord connecting them to the reader. Without it, the work is dead on arrival.

I love you, Kris. I’m always going to love you,” he whispered. “Please forgive me.” I looked away from him, wiping a tear from my cheek. “I can forgive you if you can forgive me back.” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pressed his cheek to the side of my head. Our embrace was full of loss and regrets and what-ifs. Tyler was a version of my life. A path I could have taken. But now I was so far off course I didn’t even know where I was going anymore. All I knew was I was headed for a dead end. And when I got there, I’d be alone. “Kristen, have you ever heard of the red thread of fate?” Tyler said over me. “No.” I sniffled. He turned me until I sat facing him. “I’ve been studying Mandarin,” he said, speaking to my eyes. “Learning a lot about the Chinese culture. And there was a story I read that really resonated with me.” He reached out and tenderly wiped a tear off my cheek with his thumb. “In Chinese legend, two lovers are connected by an invisible red thread around their pinky fingers. The two people connected by the red thread are destined lovers from birth, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. The cord might stretch or tangle, but it can never break.” His eyes moved back and forth between mine. “You are on the other end of my thread, Kris. No matter how far apart we are, you’re tied to me. I stretched us and I tangled us and I’m sorry. But I didn’t break us, Kris. We’re still connected.” He paused. That pause that he always did on the phone, the one that told me he was about to tell me the good part. Then he pulled a tiny, black velvet box from his pocket and opened the lid. My heart stopped dead. Oh my God. “Marry me.

It started when I met you in the rain forest. When I almost stepped on the cycad and the gloxinia, but you stopped me just in time." "That's when I made you go back and get the moonflower." "The umbilical cord, you called it." "We walked to Casablanca through the jungle." "And then alongside the ocean." "I liked you already." "I liked you, too. You introduced me to Tamatz Kauyumari. The oldest and biggest deer." "I sang you his spirit song." "And then he led us to Theobroma cacao." "I saw Panthera onca following you through the jungle, twice." "I never should have gone to the market without you, but you were sleeping." "That's where you met the Cashier." "And found the mandrake. And cichorium intybus. The plant of invisibility.

My sister Hope says that the cord stays attached after they’re born. Just invisible. Seems to me it stays that way for a long time. Stretches itself thinner and thinner over the years, till it’s a thread. The bond’s still there, but the mum can let go, a bit at a time.

Still, he could feel a fine cord stretched between them, a thin luminous fiber that ran from his chest all the way across the continent and forked into theirs. Never before had he lived through a fever without his mother; when he’d been sick in Debrecen she’d taken the train to be with him. Never had he finished a year at school without knowing that soon he’d be home with his father, working beside him in the lumberyard and walking through the fields with him in the evening. Now there was another filament, one that linked him to Klara. And Paris was her home, this place thousands of kilometers from his own. He felt the stirring of a new ache, something like homesickness but located deeper in his mind; it was an ache for the tie when his heart had been a simple and satisfied thing, small as the green apples that grew in his father’s orchard.

This room contained, as well as many books, several painted wooden models of boats, which had been mounted to the walls. They were very intricately and beautifully made, down to the miniature coils of rope and tiny brass instruments on their sanded decks, and the larger ones had white sails arranged in curving attitudes of such tension and complexity that it did indeed seem as though the wind was blowing in them. When you looked more closely, you saw that the sails were attached to countless tiny cords, so fine as to make them almost invisible, which had fixed them in these shapes. It required only a couple of steps to move from the impression of wind in the sails to the sight of the mesh of fine cords, a metaphor I felt sure Clelia had intended to illustrate the relationship between illusion and reality, though she did not perhaps expect her guests to go one step further, as I did, and reach out a hand to touch the white cloth, which was not cloth at all but paper, unexpectedly dry and brittle. Clelia’s