Quotes by Dylan Thomas
The only constant is the rain, and even that, eventually, ceases.
To write is to exhume a truth, however buried, and offer it, still trembling, to the light.
We build our heavens out of the ruins of our hells.
The brightest stars are often born from the darkest nights.
The universe whispers secrets, but the soul must learn to listen above the din.
The world is a canvas, and we are all just splatters of paint, striving for some semblance of meaning.
The world is a canvas stretched taut, awaiting the wild stroke of a heart.
We are all, in the end, just echoes in the vast cathedral of time.
Hope is a fragile bird, easily startled, yet stubbornly persistent.
To truly live is to dance on the precipice of your own making.
Let your heart be a lighthouse, guiding lost souls through the storm.
The world whispers secrets to those who dare to listen beyond the noise.
The world is a canvas too vast for any single brush; let us each paint our own corner bright.
The greatest battles are fought not on fields, but within the silent chambers of the heart.
The greatest poems are etched not in ink, but in the fleeting moments of existence.
We are all poets of our own fleeting existence, writing verses with every breath.
Embrace the chaos; within it lies the seed of creation.
We are all, in the end, only echoes of the moments that swallowed us whole.
The heart, a clumsy poet, stumbles through the dark until it finds its rhyme.
Don't measure your worth in sunrises missed, but in the twilight you embraced.
Time, a relentless tide, washes away all but the most stubborn stones.
Beauty is but a fleeting whisper in the hurricane of time.
To truly live is to become wonderfully lost in the labyrinth of your own making.
The only map worth drawing is the one of your own bewilderment.
Even in the darkest cellar, the faintest flicker of hope can illuminate the entire room.
The brightest stars are born from the darkest nights.
Let the words bleed onto the page, for silence is a heavier burden.
Find beauty in the broken, for it is there that true light seeps through.
The past is a phantom limb; it aches with a life we no longer possess, yet shapes the very step we take.
We are all, in our own ways, both the artist and the canvas.
The quieter you become, the more you can hear the universe whispering its secrets.
We are all wandering minstrels, singing our own peculiar songs of sorrow and fleeting joy.