Marc P. Robinson

For too long I have silenced my heart, that now, when I give it the opportunity to speak, it no longer remembers its voice. Locked away, it forgot what it’s like to be free; to roam. Imprisoned within loneliness, I fear Stockholm syndrome has developed.

They say that history repeats itself, so if you don’t learn from the past you will make the same mistakes. So I have become an archaeologist of my own history. Digging up what has long since been buried, exhuming those forgotten fragments. Trying to distinguish what is real from folklore, trying to gain understanding, rather than relying on myths.

Your dreams may have shattered, but that doesn’t mean they are over. They can still be turned into a mosaic of success.

When it comes to the story of my heart, I am the villain, locking it away; denying its right be free. The chains are tight, restricting its growth; long enough to see through the window of opportunity, but the only escape it has, is via the pen. Why do I deny myself the opportunities? I know it comes from a place of protection, but also of fear. I think my heart has grown a resentment because of this betrayal, and has decided, enough is enough.

When the romance is gone, if it’s always you left searching for it, maybe it’s time to stop looking, and start searching for someone new, and start a new romantic journey.

Always seeking acceptance from others, searching for belonging. Striving for individuality, yet wanting to fit in. Never understanding that acceptance for one’s own individuality make all of that redundant.

We gain the strength of the temptation we resist.

Sense shines with a double luster when it is set in humility. An able yet humble man is a jewel worth a kingdom.

Youth gets together with their materials to build a bridge to the moon or maybe a palace on earth; then in middle age they decide to build a woodshed with them instead.

The end may justify the means as long as there is something that justifies the end.

He gains everyone’s approval who mixes the pleasant with the useful.

We talk of choosing our friends, but friends are self-elected

What is easy is seldom excellent.

Sunday is the core of our civilization, dedicated to thought and reverence.

Our best history is still poetry.

The philosopher is Nature’s pilot. And there you have our difference: to be n hell is to drift: to be in heaven is to steer.

The genius, wit, and the spirit of a nation are discovered by their proverbs.

What old people say you cannot do, you try and find that you can. Old deeds for old people, and new deeds for new.

Do not waste your time on Social Questions. What is the matter with the poor is Poverty; what is the matter with the rich is Uselessness.

Death is the king of this world: ‘Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.

Those who cross the sea change only the climate, not their character.