Sobhita Dhulipala Quotes

Your old home town's so far away, but inside your head there's a record that's playing, a song called 'Hold On

Akron, Ohio, is my home. It will always be remembered. Akron, Ohio, is my life.

When you finally go back to your old home, you find it wasn't the old home you missed but your childhood.

One thing I wish I could tell my younger self: take photos of everyday life, not special occasions; later, that's what will be interesting to you.

The place of my birth, and residence for nearly sixteen years, in the early part of my life, became endeared to my feelings and affections; and more especially so after I had quitted it for an unknown place, and to associate with strangers.

This house was our dream-the gardens, the study, even the swimming pool. Even though I can't see John when I wake up in the morning, I can always feel him here with me.

The dearest days in one's life are those that seem very far and very near at once.

Whenever I think of the past, it brings back so many memories.

I don't get back to Michigan nearly as much as I'd like to.

The scene I had just witnessed (a couple making love in the ocean) brought back a lot of memories – not of things I had done but of things I had failed to do, wasted hours and frustrated moments and opportunities forever lost because time had eaten so much of my life and I would never get it back. I envied Yeoman and felt sorry for myself at the same time, because I had seen him in a moment that made all my happiness seem dull.

Over the years I’ve collected a thousand memories of you, every glimpse, every word you’ve ever said to me. All those visits to your family’s home, those dinners and holidays—I could hardly wait to walk through the front door and see you.” The corners of his mouth quirked with reminiscent amusement. “You, in the middle of that brash, bull-headed lot…I love watching you deal with your family. You’ve always been everything I thought a woman should be. And I have wanted you every second of my life since we first met.

Home should be an oratorio of the memory, singing to all our after life melodies and harmonies of old-remembered joy.

In my heart, I'm always in my rail-hosen.

I think what you notice most when you haven’t been home in a while is how much the trees have grown around your memories.

Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that's where I imagine it - there's a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you'll live forever in your own private library.

All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back on loveliness and sighed.

For me, it's always a little sad getting out of bed. Every morning after I get up, I always gaze longingly at my bed and lament, 'You were wonderful last night. I didn't want it to end. I can't wait to see you again.

Things you did. Things you never did. Things you dreamed. After a long time they run together.

I keep saying that backwards is all you can see. You can't see front. My wife says, "Stop, you're always in the past." She sees me sort of daydreaming.

Things always seem fairer when we look back at them, and it is out of that inaccessible tower of the past that Longing leans and beckons.

Looking forward to going home, I was necessarily looking backward.

It all went by so fast, didn't it? I wish I could do it all over again, I really do.

a kind of memory that tells us that what we're now striving for was once nearer and truer and attached to us with infinite tenderness. Here all is distance, there it was breath. After the first home the second one seems draughty and strangely sexed.

There is so little to remember of anyone - an anecdote, a conversation at a table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming habitual fondness not having meant to keep us waiting long.

How vast a memory has Love!