Pierce The Veil Love Quotes

My Love For You Was Bulletproof But You're The One Who Shot Me.

Can we lose our minds, and call it love for the last time.

And god damit, I can barely say your name, So I'll try to write it, And fill the pen with blood from the sink.

You've gone and sewn me to this bed, The taste of you and me, Will never leave my lips again, Under the blinding rain, I wanna hold your hand so tight, I'm gonna break my wrist, And when the vultures sing tonight, I'm gonna join right in.

Don't bother this love is a lie. I'm a chemical kid, You're a mechanical bride.

I'm sorry, I can't see that you truly love me

No, really, Herr Nietzche, I have great admiration for you. Sympathy. You want to make us able to live with the void. Not lie ourselves into good-naturedness, trust, ordinary middling human considerations, but to question as has never been questioned before, relentlessly, with iron determination, into evil, through evil, past evil, accepting no abject comfort. The most absolute, the most piercing questions. Rejecting mankind as it is, that ordinary, practical, thieving, stinking, unilluminated, sodden rabble, not only the laboring rabble, but even worse the "educated" rabble with its books and concerts and lectures, its liberalism and its romantic theatrical "loves" and "passions"--it all deserves to die, it will die. Okay. Still, your extremists must survive. No survival, no Amor Fati. Your immoralists also eat meat. They ride the bus. They are only the most bus-sick travelers. Humankind lives mainly upon perverted ideas. Perverted, your ideas are no better than those the Christianity you condemn. Any philosopher who wants to keep his contact with mankind should pervert his own system in advance to see how it will really look a few decades after adoption. I send you greetings from this mere border of grassy temporal light, and wish you happiness, wherever you are. Yours, under the veil of Maya, M.E.H.

After a Retreat What hast thou learnt today? Hast thou sounded awful mysteries, Hast pierced the veiled skies, Climbed to the feet of God, Trodden where saints have trod, Fathomed the heights above? Nay, This only have I learnt, that God is love. What hast thou heard today? Hast heard the Angel-trumpets cry, And rippling harps reply; Heard from the Throne of flame Whence God incarnate came Some thund'rous message roll? Nay, This have I heard, His voice within my soul. What hast thou felt today? The pinions of the Angel guide That standeth at thy side In rapturous ardours beat Glowing, from head to feet, In ecstasy divine? Nay, This only have felt, Christ's hand in mine.

And her heart sprang in Iseult, and she drew With all her spirit and life the sunrise through And through her lips the keen triumphant air Sea-scented, sweeter than land-roses were, And through her eyes the whole rejoicing east Sun-satisfied, and all the heaven at feast Spread for the morning; and the imperious mirth Of wind and light that moved upon the earth, Making the spring, and all the fruitful might And strong regeneration of delight That swells the seedling leaf and sapling man, Since the first life in the first world began To burn and burgeon through void limbs and veins, And the first love with sharp sweet procreant pains To pierce and bring forth roses; yea, she felt Through her own soul the sovereign morning melt, And all the sacred passion of the sun; And as the young clouds flamed and were undone About him coming, touched and burnt away In rosy ruin and yellow spoil of day, The sweet veil of her body and corporal sense Felt the dawn also cleave it, and incense With light from inward and with effluent heat The kindling soul through fleshly hands and feet. And as the august great blossom of the dawn Burst, and the full sun scarce from sea withdrawn Seemed on the fiery water a flower afloat, So as a fire the mighty morning smote Throughout her, and incensed with the influent hour Her whole soul's one great mystical red flower Burst, and the bud of her sweet spirit broke Rose-fashion, and the strong spring at a stroke Thrilled, and was cloven, and from the full sheath came The whole rose of the woman red as flame: And all her Mayday blood as from a swoon Flushed, and May rose up in her and was June. So for a space her hearth as heavenward burned: Then with half summer in her eyes she turned, And on her lips was April yet, and smiled, As though the spirit and sense unreconciled Shrank laughing back, and would not ere its hour Let life put forth the irrevocable flower. And the soft speech between them grew again

It was Christmas but that was not a day or a season - it was an expectation, a promise of joy and peace, an obligation to pierce the veil of singleness, separating me from all the universe, a duty more compelling because of the night itself, the real Christian anticipation that God Almighty, God Himself, would in the silent moments of that night leap the gap between the divine and the human and commune with us all. An expectation and a challenge: to find the peace I could not find, to find the joy that was not mine, to forgive and be forgiven, when, in fact, my only sin and my only virtue, then and now, was my aloneness.

Physical work is a specific contact with the beauty of the world, and can even be, in its best moments, a contact so full that no equivalent can be found elsewhere. The artist, the scholar, the philosopher, the contemplative should really admire the world and pierce through the film of unreality that veils it and makes of it, for nearly all men at nearly every moment of their lives, a dream or stage set. They ought to do this but more often than not they cannot manage it. He who is aching in every limb, worn out by the effort of a day of work, that is to say a day when he has been subject to matter, bears the reality of the universe in his flesh like a thorn. The difficulty for him is to look and to love. If he succeeds, he loves the Real

A woman paralyzed by her own selfishness and triviality, a woman who knew she should love her life more than she did but couldn’t seem to love her life beyond a few odd inconsequential incidents. It is, in fact, time to start dating again. But Dan has no idea what that means for a gay man well into his thirties who has neither money nor abs. - if you’re delivering a song, there are instances when the veil of the ordinary falls away and you are, fleetingly, a supernatural being, with music rampaging through you and soaring out into a crowd. You connect, you’re giving it, you’re the living sweat-slicked manifestation of music itself, the crowd feels it as piercingly as you do. Always, almost always, you “spot a girl. She doesn’t need to be pretty. She’s the love of somebody’s life (you hope she is), and for those few seconds she’s the love of yours, you’re singing to her and she’s singing back to you, by raising her arms over her head and swinging her hips, adoring you or, rather, adoring some being who is you and the song combined, able to touch her everywhere. It’s the briefest of love affairs. - Isabel is embarrassed about her sadness. She’s embarrassed about being embarrassed about her sadness, she who has love and money. She tries looking discreetly into her bag for a Kleenex, without anything that could be called frantic rummaging. She ponders the prospect that decadent unhappiness might, in its way, be worse than genuine, legitimate despair. Which is, as she knows, a decadent question to pose at all. - members of a biological aristocracy - Dan is taken by a tremor of scorn twisted up with painful affection, as if they were two names for the same emotion - but that’s my narcissism speaking ive been working on the idea that there are other people in the world - Beyond lust there’s a purity, you know? Does it ever get to be too late? If neither of you abuses the dog (should they finally get a dog?) or leaves the children in the car on a hot day. Does it ever become irreparable? If so, when? How do you, how does any“one, know when they cross over from working through this to it’s too late? Is there (she suspects there must be) an interlude during which you’re so bored or disappointed or ambushed by regret that it is, truly, too late? Or, more to the point, do we arrive at it’s too late over and over again, only to return to working through this before it’s too late arrives, yet again? Do you think we ever really survive our childhoods? Most mothers think their children are amazing and singular people. Most mothers are wrong about that. You’re beautiful in your own skin. You brought with you into the world some kind of human amazingness, and you can depend on it, always. Please try not to ever let anybody talk you out of that. She says, “You’re not in love with me.” “Trust me. I’ve had a lot of experience at not being in love with people. I’ve been not in love with pretty much everybody, all my life.” She wonders how many women think more kindly and, all right, more lustfully toward their husbands after they’ve left them. Maybe someone’s done a study. “If you’re determined to be insulted.

They arrested Matthias and me, and beat me within an inch of my immortal life. I was beyond pain...my poor body was a prison cell. Strips of flesh hung from my scourged back like macabre party favors, and Ville, one of Hana's henchmen, took great delight in rubbing salt into my wounds. What hurt the most were his words... Murderer. Liar. Faggot. Whore. Blasphemer. He took his pleasure from hurting me, and my screams were orgasmic to him. A crown of thorns was placed upon my head, and I bled as the briars pierced my flesh...I was starved, and I couldn't think straight. The morning before my crucifixion, I had no food or water. Ville beat me within an inch of my life, and his ring cut my face. I begged him to stop, and he spit on me... All because I dared to declare myself the Son of God. I prayed to Benediction to let Matthias remember his promise...I was so afraid of suffering...but Matty had been steadfast and true. He had given me the wine laced with belladonna, and had pierced my side to release the Godhead. As my legs were taken by the paralysis from the belladonna, he had laid me gently upon the cross and kissed me goodbye...his lips felt warm through the veil that was covering his face and protecting him from the deadly rays of the sun. The stakes were driven through my palms, then my feet...I took a last loving look at My Matty, and drew my last... ...Then Brian and Obadiah were there on either side of me in the darkness, and we were flying upwards, into the clouds...

Everywhere and nowhere A boat in the mist covered river, Moved slowly, as if traveling through the smoke of time, The banks stretched their arms forever, While the river flowed quietly between them creating endless waves of time, As the point from where the boat started seemed farther, The boat to it too appeared obscure and now almost unseen, As the smoke of time hid both of them from each other, I witnessed what I had never before seen The waves that touched the body of the boat, Rushed to the point where it had started from, To play to it her loving note, And it could easily tell from which boat it had originated from, The boatman who sometimes dipped his tired hands into the water, Felt the kiss of the waves trying to cover his boat, And he smiled because he knew what each wave was after, These kiss soaked waves that felt the body of his smoothly sailing boat, And at times he looked at the point from where he had started, His eyes would pierce through veil of invisibility cast by the mist, And the starting point that was now the waiting point, from which the boat had departed, Would longingly return the look through the dense cover of the mist, And the boat would sail farther away with every wave, The mist followed it everywhere, And the point from where the boat started, now hoped, and did crave, To see the boat once again, because it disliked the feeling when in the long river it was sailing somewhere, Because the point where the boat anchored everyday, Knew that there are places in the river called nowhere, And when the boat left the anchored spot, it waited for her every day, Until it was sure that now the boat was safely anchored here, and not just anywhere or nowhere!

Frida Kahlo, San Miguel, Ash Wednesday You faded so long ago but here in the souvenir arcade you’re everywhere: the printed cotton bags, the pierced tin boxes, the scarlet T-shirts, the beaded crosses; your coiled braids, your level stare, your body of a deer or martyr. It’s a meme you can turn into if your ending’s strange enough and ardent, and involves much pain. The rope of a hanged man brings good luck; saints dangle upside down or offer their breasts on a plate and we wear them, we invoke them, insert them between our flesh and danger. Fireworks, two streets over. Something’s burning somewhere, or did burn, once. A torn silk veil, a yellowing letter: I’m dying here. Love on a skewer, a heart in flames. We breathe you in, thin smoke, grief in the form of ashes. Yesterday the children smashed their hollowed eggs on the heads of others, baptizing them with glitter. Shell fragments litter the park like the wings of crushed butterflies, like sand, like confetti: azure, sunset, blood, your colours.

PLAYLIST Stream the complete The Pact playlist here. “Guys My Age” by Hey Violet “Hypnotic” by Zella Day “MakeDamnSure” by Taking Back Sunday “Hell Above” by Pierce The Veil “Left Behind” by The Plot In You “Live And Let Die” by Roseview, Kellin Quinn “Sleepless” by Dutch Melrose “Taste” by Ari Abdul “Loud” by The Home Team “Martyr” by KiNG MALA “Curiosity” by Bryce Savage “Church” by Chase Atlantic “Bury Me” by If Not For Me “Already Numb” by Dayseeker “Unholy” by Ana Eclipse “Chokehold” by Sleep Token “Love Bites” by Ice Nine Kills “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails “Cyanide” by Allistair “All This Time” by Toby Mai “Drown” by Bring Me The Horizon “Nerve Endings” by Too Close To Touch “Go To Hell” by Nikki Idol “How Villains Are Made” by Madalen Duke

The more I hear stories from far away times Of agonies lovers endured in ages long past, Of tales of unions and separations And whenever I look at events of days of yore, Piercing the veil of darkness of times past They appear in the form of an eternal star In your visage. Translated by Dr. Fakrul Alam

May the Lord of Love who projects himself Into this universe of myriad forms, From whom all beings come and to whom all Return- may he grant us the grace of wisdom. He is fire and the sun, and the moon And the stars. He is the air and the sea And the Creator, Prajapati. He is the blue bird; he is the green bird With red eyes; he is the thundercloud, And he is the seasons and the seas. He has no beginning; he has no end. He is the source from whom the worlds evolve. From his divine power comes forth all this Magical show of name and form, of you And me, which casts the spell of pain and pleasure. Only when we pierce through this magic veil Do we see the one who appears as many.

Man looks out into the world, and he sees sickness, chaos, and man's inhumanity to man. The man with the disciplined imagination soars above all appearances, discord, sense evidence, and sees the sublime principle of harmony operating through, in, and behind all things. He knows through his Divine imagery that there is an Everlasting Law of Righteousness behind all things, an Ever Abiding Peace, a Boundless Love governing the entire Cosmos. These Truths surge through the heart, and are born of the eternal Truth which through the imagination pierces the outer veil, and rests in the Divine meaning of the way it is in God and Heaven.

Maggots?” It was disgusting to look at, but academically fascinating. “Aye, maggots. Clarks and infirmarians of Aventir have begun using them in such cases,” the old man said, falling into his familiar, didactic tone. “It’s said they have a special fondness for putrescence and no love of healthy flesh.” He ground the contents of the pestle for a time, added oil, and then smeared it on the wound. Selwyn sucked in breath at the pain but made no complaint. He would soon be a knight.