When we cling to pain, we end up punishing ourselves.
Life is hard. . . but we cling to it all the same
Whatever happens, abide steadfast in a determination to cling simply to God.
To free desire from the tendency to cling, we have to be willing to stumble over ourselves.
Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist? -ah! never-never.
Do not cling to the symbols, but get to the inner truth!
When I could no longer cling to my normal supports I discovered that true support and real safety lie far beyond the structures of our world.
If you are bathed In God's Forgiveness-Light, Then no dust of earth Will be able to cling to you.
You only lose that which you cling to.
The future is always scary to those who cling to the past.
If some glorious angel suddenly descended through my living room ceiling and offered to take away the children I have and give me other, better children — more polite, funnier, nicer, smarter — I would cling to the children I have and pray away that atrocious spectacle.
What is the world full of? It is full of things that arise, persist, and cease. Grasp and cling to them, and they produce suffering. Don't grasp and cling to them, and they do not produce suffering.
One must eliminate the traditional and cling to the essential.
To resist change, to try to cling to life, is therefore like holding your breath: if you persist you kill yourself.
The juvenile sea squirt wanders through the sea searching for a suitable rock or hunk of coral to cling to and make its home for life. For this task, it has a rudimentary nervous system. When it finds its spot and takes root, it doesn't need its brain anymore so it eats it!
Sure, nothing succeeds like success. Fact is, dearest, we are fools. We cling to an ideal no one wants or cares about. I am the greater fool of the two of us. I go on eating out my heart and poisoning every moment of my life in the attempt to rouse people's sensibilities. At least if I could do it with closed eyes. The irony is I see the futility of my efforts and yet I can't let go.
We hate the very idea that our own ideas may be mistaken, so we cling dogmatically to our conjectures.
Fiction stymies me with its possibility. I can't see the bottom and I freeze, cling to the side, or just choke. In nonfiction, particularly that which takes personal narrative for its primary topic, I have a finite space and a finite amount of material. I can't fabricate material, I can only shape and burrow into it.
I cling to him like he's what keeps me thriving. Because he is.
And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.