Because you can text while doing something else, texting does not seem to take time but to give you time. This is more than welcome; it is magical.
You are not meant to serve time. Time is meant to serve you. Become the master of your now
It is still this moment and that will be true of every moment that follows, assuming this moment ever ends, which, if I am lucky, it won't.
[T]he people who are close to Allah worry so much about wasting time that they call themselves to account for every breath they spend - how many of us wonder about how we spend our day, let alone each breath?
And so I told myself to take that one. Because Father said clocks slay time. He said time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life. The hands were extended, slightly off the horizontal at a faint angle, like a gull tilting into the wind.
you live through . . . that little piece of time that is yours, but that piece of time is not only your own life, it is the summing-up of all the other lives that are simultaneous with yours. It is, in other words, History, and what you are is an expression of History.
What is far is very close, and what is close is very far
You chose to live here now. You should try to live in the present.
It is always worth itemizing happiness, there is so much of the other thing in a life, you had better put down the markers of happiness while you can.
I'm sure, the highest capacity of storage device, will not enough to record all our stories; because, everytime with you is very valuable data
[When] he's here, he's always reading. He says books stop time. I myself think he's crazy...Don't tell anyone, but when he reads something that he likes he gets real happy, turns on the music, and dances by himself, or with a broom sometimes.
You knows dat in New Orleans is not morning 'til dee sun come up.
As for time, all men have it in abundance.
To the non-combatants and those on the periphery of action, the war meant only boredom or occasional excitement, but to those who entered the meat grinder itself the war was a netherworld of horror from which escape seemed less and less likely as casualties mounted and the fighting dragged on and on. Time had no meaning, life had no meaning. The fierce struggle for survival in the abyss of Peleliu had eroded the veneer of civilization and made savages of us all.
I'd Better Not-- A man leaned over to a man in a pub And said in a voice βI used to be thirty seven but now Iβm fifty oneβ. And thatβs how the years go. In handfuls. Like somebody is almost at the end of a bag of crisps And they tip the bag up And itβs as though theyβre drinking crisps. Thatβs how the years go.
Memory is not an instrument for exploring the past but its theatre. It is the medium of past experience, as the ground is the medium in which dead cities lie interred.
For the machine meant the conquest of horizontal space. It also meant a sense of that space which few people had experienced before β the succession and superimposition of views, the unfolding of landscape in flickering surfaces as one was carried swiftly past it, and an exaggerated feeling of relative motion (the poplars nearby seeming to move faster than the church spire across the field) due to parallax. The view from the train was not the view from the horse. It compressed more motifs into the same time. Conversely, it left less time in which to dwell on any one thing.
Most of our lives are crucified between two thieves, yesterday and tomorrow. We never live today. But the time to live is now. It is today.
Had I realized at the time that for Austerlitz certain moments had no beginning or end, while on the other hand his whole life had sometimes seemed to him a blank point without duration, I would probably have waited more patiently.
The pathway traced with blood and tears, and dust of all our father's dead, Whose backward footsteps, wandering, red, Fade to the mist of nameless years. (βThe Testimony of the Sunsβ)
