adult

The cactus thrives in the desert while the fern thrives in the wetland.The fool will try to plant them in the same flowerbox.The florist will sigh and add a wall divider and proper soil to both sides.The grandparent will move the flowerbox halfway out of the sun.The child will turn it around properly so that the fern is in the shade, and not the cactus.The moral of the story?Kids are smart.

Though children can accept adults as adults, adults can never accept children as anything but adults too.

Critics who treat 'adult' as a term of approval, instead of as a merely descriptive term, cannot be adult themselves. To be concerned about being grown up, to admire the grown up because it is grown up, to blush at the suspicion of being childish; these things are the marks of childhood and adolescence. And in childhood and adolescence they are, in moderation, healthy symptoms. Young things ought to want to grow. But to carry on into middle life or even into early manhood this concern about being adult is a mark of really arrested development. When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty I read them openly. When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up.

When you are a grown up your brothers become your neighbors and your unconditional brotherhood become your conditional neighborhood.

I always wake up early in a strange bed. I looked at Bertrand, I wonder about him. There was a sort of easy grace in whatever he did, He didn't talk much. I watched this boy sleeping beside me. God, was he tall, and handsome. I was surprised, during the night, when he's told me he was only nineteen. I never would have imagined this kind of cool confidence could come so early to a person. But nineteen, after all, wasn't so far off. I remembered how stupid I was in my relations with other people then.

Love is a relation that starts before you are born and survives even after you die...

I feel claimed and bonded to him like animals do. I feel like I've already been caught and trapped and he's merely priming me, leaving me to simmer in my juices, anxiously waiting for the moment when he takes his first bite of me.

You can be beautiful and young even as you get older. Keep an active life.

For eight years I__e waited for you to realize that. I__e waited for you to see yourself for who you really are. You__e Lily Marks, a beautiful, extremely clever woman whose capacity for compassion sets you apart from the Nephilim. It__ not your fighting skills or how good of a warrior you are. It__ the fact you look at me and see a man rather than a Fallen._ -Julian

He didn't want just one morning with her, just one dawn breaking across the horizon. He wanted every dawn forever, every night, and the hours in between.

Be the kind of grown up you needed as a child.

Ursula Monkton smiled, and the lightnings wreathed and writhed about her. She was power incarnate, standing in the crackling air. She was the storm, she was the lightning, she was the adult world with all its power and all its secrets and all its foolish casual cruelty.

When you blame others, what you are really saying is what is inside of you can__ be fixed, so you have no control of your own happiness. Therefore, you have made the conscience choice to give focus and fuel to a bad situation that will take you nowhere and give you nothing, but ignorance and pain.

Good friends will allow you to be as innocent and free as a child when in private, and as wise and mature as an adult when in public.

Age is only a number. Keep an active life.

The adult age begins with the blessed single strand of a grey hair.

When I was a child, I thought like a child.When I became adult, I seek a deeper understanding of life.

One of my earliest memories was of a maze of pale green walls. The corridors never ended, no matter which way I turned. I was running, my feet bare, my paper-thin gown flapping around skinny foal-like legs, and the demons kept on coming. I__ run the maze before, because I always knew which way to turn to find the little clear plastic box. I__ run, and run. Lungs aching, throat burning, my feet slapping against the smooth floor, and the sound of scrabbling claws chased me down. I made it to the box, every time (I__ learned later, there were others who hadn__) and once inside, I__ yank the clear door closed. The demons didn__ see the box. They saw only me, the wraith-like little half-blood girl. They would launch themselves__laws extended, jaws wide, eyes ablaze__nd slam into my box, sending shudders rattling through my bones. They__ snap and snarl, hook their teeth into the box and gnaw at its edges, desperate to get to the feast huddling a few millimeters away. Flooding, the Institute had called it. At first I was afraid, and I learned how to run. Then I was angry, and I learned how to fight with my fists and my element. Then, I got even. I lured those demons into a corner and ambushed them, killing every last one. After countless visits to the maze, after weeks, years, I__ started liking it, and killing became as natural as breathing. It was what I was good at. What I was made for. What I lived for.© Copyright Pippa DaCosta 2016.