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Wildflowers in my Ribcage

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LAIBA IMTIYAZ

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“The path of destiny pulls you forward. It exhumes you from a state of being and propels you towards the juncture you were created for. A new frontier that you are forced to tread with a cross on your back, heavy as a boulder. When you fall to your knees at the hands of your betrayer, you can only hope to find the one sent to carry your burden -- shoulder the journey towards your final punishment. Sometimes duplicity and treason are markers of the enemy, and sometimes the failed intention of a masterful ally.”

Reality Of Life
Book:Vex
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“In writing the short novel Fahrenheit 451 I thought I was describing a world that might evolve in four or five decades. But only a few weeks ago, in Beverly Hills one night, a husband and wife passed me, walking their dog. I stood staring after them, absolutely stunned. The woman held in one hand a small cigarette-package-sized radio, its antenna quivering. From this sprang tiny copper wires which ended in a dainty cone plugged into her right ear. There she was, oblivious to man and dog, listening to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. This was not fiction.”

FictionReality Of Life
Author:Ray Bradbury
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“Muchos humanos dicen que les gusta el invierno, pero lo que realmente les gusta es poderse sentir protegidos frente a él. Para ellos la alimentación no supone ningún problema en invierno. Tienen fuegos y ropa de abrigo. El invierno no puede hacerles daño y, por tanto, aumenta su sensación de bienestar y seguridad. Para los pájaros y los animales, al igual que para las personas pobres, el invierno es otra historia.”

Reality Of Life
Book:Watership Down
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“In the morning I walk across the fields in a bright, arid light. When I return I can hear the grand piano being played through the open windows. I stand in the garden and listen. The lucidity of the sound seems more real to me than anything we have left behind us, than home, than the days whose repetition had laid a kind of fetter over my soul. In its solitariness it speaks to my own single nature. It startles me a little, to be spoken to; as though my life, the life of home, were a fake, and the real life was roaming somewhere in the world, fleet-footed, unique, uncapturable, to be glimpsed sometimes through an open window, and then to vanish again.”

Reality Of LifePower Of MusicRoaming AroundSolitariness
Book:The Last Supper: A Summer in Italy
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