Don't wait for the stars to align, reach up and rearrange them the way you want...create your own constellation
We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made of layers, cells, constellations.
Things are as they are. Looking out into it the universe at night, we make no comparisons between right and wrong stars, nor between well and badly arranged constellations.
Those who first invented and then named the constellations were storytellers. Tracing an imaginary line between a cluster of stars gave them an image and an identity. The stars threaded on that line were like events threaded on a narrative. Imagining the constellations did not of course change the stars, nor did it change the black emptiness that surrounds them. What it changed was the way people read the night sky.
The stars we are given. The constellations we make. That is to say, stars exist in the cosmos, but constellations are the imaginary lines we draw between them, the readings we give the sky, the stories we tell.
There's a universe inside your head, constellations of the things you left unsaid.
My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.
Every constellation’s like its own fairy tale.
I am like a falling star who has finally found her place next to another in a lovely constellation, where we will sparkle in the heavens forever.
The dark night was the first book of poetry and the constellations were the poems.
Throughout the hours of the night, though there had been few to hear it, the whole sky had been loud with the singing of these constellations.
We all live in our own world. But if you look up at the starry sky - you'll see that all the different worlds up there combine to form constellations, solar systems, galaxies.
I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home. I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand. I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.
If the constellations had been named in the twentieth century, I suppose we would see bicycles and refrigerators in the sky.
Identity is an assemblage of constellations.
Every luminary in the constellation of human greatness, like the stars, comes out in the darkness to shine with the reflected light of God.
Your wide eyes are the only light I know from extinguished constellations.
His head is made of stars, but not yet arranged into constellations.
Constellations have always been troublesome things to name. If you give one of them a fanciful name, it will always refuse to live up to it; it will always persist in not resembling the thing it has been named for.
A head full of stars, just not in constellation yet.
Ideas are to objects as constellations are to stars [translated from Trauerspiel, 1928].
Once upon a perfect night, unclouded and still, there came the face of a pale and beautiful lady. The tresses of her hair reached out to make the constellations, and the dewy vapours of her gown fell soft upon the land.
A wise man shall overrule his stars, and have a greater influence upon his own content than all the constellations and planets of the firmament.
We write to find out what we didn’t know we knew. We write to know deeper and truer. We write to connect the dots: a whole new constellation.
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