Marc P. Robinson

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.

Why do the words I want to say, struggle to come out of my mouth. Why does fear have such a grip over me. I shouldn’t have to battle to say all the complimentary things I so desperately want to share. It shouldn’t be this hard, that I have to force myself; it’s wrong that such loving words, should have to be spoken under such duress. I’m aware of how wrong it is, but withholding is all I have known, even though I desire so badly to share my thoughts and feelings with you, as freely as you do with me.

You are a constant. Forever in my mind; forever in my heart. It seems that most matter how much I try I can’t get rid of you. You are a thorn, stuck in deep; painful to remove, and even when I do, still I’ll bleed and feel the soreness. It will take time, but it will heal. No matter the pain, I will still dare to pick roses.

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

With all the doubt, with every worry, with all the negativity that I mistook for honesty, it kept me blinded. Lying for so long, I fooled myself in believing it to be my reality. And living in that world, it was my reality. Like when the lights come on, or when the curtains are drawn back, the shock of the clarity, meant I had to adjust to the new world I was witnessing. An honest; good with the bad, world, that I can thrive and grow in.

Whether he knew it or not, the life he lived was his penance. Punishing himself, for what he believes are his sins. Consciously or subconsciously, he creates the world he lives in. Never believing that he is deserving happiness, deserving joy. His self-destructive nature, in his eyes, and his eyes only, is justified. Everyone is deserving absolution, but he needs to understand, that he is the only one able to forgive himself.

Insurrection is an art, and like all arts has its own laws.

The ancient Romans built their greatest masterpieces of architecture, their amphitheaters, for wild beasts to fight in.

For things to reveal themselves to us, we need to be ready to abandon our views about them.

By his father he is English, by his mother he is Americanto my mind the blend which makes the perfect man.

Life is the art of drawing sufficient conclusions from insufficient premises.

Good breeding, a union of kindness and independence.

Give me health and a day, and I will make the pomp of emperors ridiculous.

Be careless in your dress if you will, but keep a tidy soul.

It’s easier to hold onto your own stereotypes and misconceptions, it makes you feel justified in your own ignorance. That’s America. So the challenge for us is, are we ready for change?

Wealth is in applications of mind to nature; and the art of getting rich consists not in industry, much less in saving, but in a better order, in timeliness, in being at the right spot.

Why should we take advice on sex from the pope? If he knows anything about it, he shouldn’t!

Wisdom has its root in goodness, not goodness its root in wisdom.

We are all alike, on the inside.

That is the whole secret of successful fighting. Get your enemy at a disadvantage; and never, on any account, fight him on equal terms.

A man is what he thinks about all day long.