91 Quotes by Hubert Martin

My scars show you I've been strong enough to endure the trauma of the world. My heart has no scars, my heart hangs in tatters only visible to those who see with more than their eyes. And my soul, well, my soul is comprised of pristine shatter, held together only because each individual piece is falling apart. They fall apart the right way though, that's why I still play this facade of being one and whole.

And in my novels I live many lives. Substitutes of spontaneity to replace a dreary reality. How I live for those inky black words and kaleidoscope colored experiences.

I wear my past around my shoulders as a fine, but worn, cloak. Don't be fooled by my cloak's appearance, I have a three piece underneath.

What do you do when your words aren’t enough? What do you do when your actions have no effect? What do you do when all the fibers of your existence scream just to be heard? And yet, only the most deafening silence returns the echoes of your screams. Is there something beyond words and action?

I love her, but every hug leaves bullet holes in my chest. Every kiss is another scar upon my flesh. Every thrust, every touch, every moan that escapes her lips... they are famine to my soul, and I still can’t let her go.

Anyone who claims good or evil isn’t one or either, they’re just a liar... the worst kind of liar... the liar that doesn’t even know they’re lying. We’re human. We’re good during the day and evil at night, half the time those roles are reversed, that’s what it’s all about.

She was small. Her shadow moved in the dance of chaos before her as the inferno blazed behind her and licked the sky with its many tongues. She clutched an indistinguishable toy with both arms tightly. Her face was serene. Her eyes shone with courage more immense than the surrounding flames. She was small, but at that moment, I’ve never seen a bigger person.

On these days, I’ve never felt so hollow. Recollecting the many pieces of me that were lost in past sub-lives. They were the minor characters of my novel life, the sub-plots to the whole story. On these days I was the binding that held the book together, I was not the words.

I wanted nothing more than her attention. Her thoughts filled with me. Her eyes lost in my image. I wanted her so badly I didn’t even realize I lost myself in the process. Now, when I look in the mirror, I only see her... where is me?