Marc P. Robinson

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.

My love for you was like a poem I wrote; one that I disregarded as average. Torn out, thrown away to the rubbish heap, waiting; wishing to be picked up and appreciated by someone else, for the masterpiece that it is.

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.

It’s not the adversity, but how you face it.

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.

Why is that others have so much faith in me, while I have so little? Why can’t I have the same belief in me that they have? Why can’t I see in myself, what they do? What is it that makes me, hold myself back? How many more hurdles do I need to overcome? There are so many questions that I have to find the answers to. And I will only find them by focusing and being completely honest with myself.

No folly is more costly than the folly of intolerant idealism.

The wretched have no compassion, they can do good only from strong principles of duty.

No soul is desolate as long as there is a human being for whom it can feel trust and reverence.

It is with books as with men: a very small number play a great part.

A friend is one to whom one may pour out the contents of one’s heart, chaff and grain together, knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.

Humility like the darkness, reveals the heavenly lights.

Whatever advice you give, be short.

The beginning of compunction is the beginning of a new life.

What Englishman will give his mind to politics as long as he can afford to keep a motor car?

If a man sits down to think, he is immediately asked if has a headache.

A sudden bold and unexpected question does many times surprise a man and lay him open.

One soweth and another reapeth is a verity that applies to evil as well as good.

Is not marriage an open question, when it is alleged, from the beginning of the world, that such as are in the institution wish to get out, and such as are out wish to get in?

We are apt to love praise, but not deserve it. But if we would deserve it, we must love virtue more than that.

Every man will be a poet if he can; otherwise a philosopher or man of science. This proves the superiority of the poet.