Pools of sorrow waves of joy are drifting thorough my open mind possessing and caressing m

The sea is emotion incarnate. It loves, hates, and weeps. It defies all attempts to capture it with words and rejects all shackles. No matter what you say about it, there is always that which you can't.

Everything was screaming: the sea, the wind, my heart.

A chaos of mind and body - a time for weeping at sunsets and at the glamour of moonlight - a confusion and profusion of beliefs and hopes, in God, in Truth, in Love, and in Eternity - an ability to be transported by the beauty of physical objects - a heart to ache or swell- a joy so joyful and a sorrow so sorrowful that oceans could lie between them...

Life is an oasis which is submerged in the swirling waves of sorrows and agonies.

I tell you, it is a Suffering, to have a sea - no care how Blue - between your Soul, and you.

Pain and pleasure are the crests and valleys of the waves in the ocean of bliss. Deep down there is utter fullness.

Joy is to fun what the deep sea is to a puddle. It’s a feeling inside that can hardly be contained.

Joy and sorrow in this world pass into each other, mingling their forms and their murmurs in the twilight of life as mysterious as an overshadowed ocean, while the dazzling brightness of supreme hopes lies far off, fascinating and still, on the distant edge of the horizon

I was like a sea pulled by two moons. This must mean a boiling of the waters, tides that rushed up and carried away structures meant for living in, and then receded till earth that should be covered lay naked.

Obviously, a rigid, blinkered, absolutist world view is the easiest to keep hold of, whereas the fluid, uncertain, metamorphic picture I've always carried about is rather more vulnerable. Yet I must cling with all my might to … my own soul; must hold on to its mischievous, iconoclastic, out-of-step clown-instincts, no matter how great the storm. And if that plunges me into contradiction and paradox, so be it; I've lived in that messy ocean all my life. I've fished in it for my art. This turbulent sea was the sea outside my bedroom window in Bombay. It is the sea by which I was born, and which I carry within me wherever I go.

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt. I fear. I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul.

And her joy was nearly like sorrow.

We must understand that sadness is an ocean, and sometimes we drown, while other days we are forced to swim