“Oh darling, grab a bit of courage to turn your scars into art.”

Paint your scars with the ink of hope.

Embrace those storms that lead you to your waves of dreams.

follow the map of your soul even amidst all changes.

Allow your heart to paint a hopeful sky of miracles.

Some thunders are meant to mould your heart into art.

Those gun shots may take their home and wealth, but can’t change their heart.

Even the moon adore the way your brave heart beats.

Scars are lessons which reveal your true way.

Incomplete phases are still attractive, so do your brave heart.

Oh darling, melt your own soul with flames of self love.

Accept the storm before you expect the rainbow.

Be a calm wave in your ocean of chaos.

Plant seeds of self love in the soil of your heart.

An hopeful soul is an art of miracles.

Be a firefly in the world of fake butterflies.

Sometimes, a spark of hope is enough to reform the light in your heart.

Charm is the great English blight. It does not exist outside these damp islands. It spots and kills anything it touches. It kills love; it kills art; I greatly fear, my dear Charles, it has killed you.

Sunlight is painting.

Giving comfort under affliction requires that penetration into the human mind, joined to that experience which knows how to soothe, how to reason, and how to ridicule; taking the utmost care never to apply those arts improperly.

History repeats itself, but the special call of an art which has passed away is never reproduced. It is as utterly gone out of the world as the song of a destroyed wild bird.

In the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the nonbelongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks.

It is my belief no man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self knowledge.

Imagination, not invention, is the supreme master of art as of life.

Almost all crime is due to the repressed desire for aesthetic expression.