Grind it out. Hanging on just one second longer than your competition makes you the winner.
But the grind has begun. The windows don’t open, and even the availability of near-constant jokes about Jews and Mormons fails to stem the tide of frustration, decay. We’ve reached the end of pure inspiration, and are now somewhere else, something implying routine, or doing something because people expect us to do it, going somewhere each day because we went there the day before, saying things because we have said them before, and this seems like the work of a different sort of animal, contrary to our plan, and this is very very bad.
I think I'm just now startin' to get to the point where fans are startin' to respect my grind, and respect my lyrics and things that I'm gettin' into, and they see the hunger in me, and they know that I wanna become the best, and I'm just tryin' to prove myself. I feel like it would be a letdown if I stopped now.
Naturally enough when I was a young dancer, I was terribly anxious to get ahead, and to get ahead quickly. I was impatient with all those older people who talked of the long grind to the top, who turned me down for jobs I knew I could do.
I have no axe to grind; only my thoughts to burnish.
You can get so confused that you'll start in to race down long wiggled roads at a break-necking pace and grind on for miles across weirdish wild space, headed, I fear, toward a most useless place. The Waiting Place.
God's mill grinds slow, but sure.
I’m a true believer in the mental side of gymnastics – the 95% mental and 5% physical. It’s totally true. As you get to an older age, at 25 years old, I’ve pretty much learned everything that I need to learn in gymnastics. Now it’s, can I mentally push through the daily grind? Can I push through the small injuries and the aches and pains?
And a proverb haunts my mind As a spell is cast, The mill cannot grind With the water that is past.
Instant gratification is so overrated. It's about the process. It's the difficulty. It's the grind of all of it that you better enjoy. That's what makes it great.
Beauty's where you find it; not just where you bump and grind it.
Life really is like a grindstone, in that it will either grind you down or polish you up.
War is about remaking the world to suit the whims of some powerful group over the whims of some other powerful group. The dead are just the sparks that fly from the metal as they grind it down.
Men grind and grind in the mill of a truism, and nothing comes out but what was put in. But the moment they desert the tradition for a spontaneous thought, then poetry, wit, hope, virtue, learning, anecdote, and all flock to their aid.
Everybody was in struggle, in the grind trying to make it.
Three were the fates. Poverty that chains; gray drudgery that grinds the hope away, and gaping ignorance that starves the soul.
It's not the cost (although that pinches), or the time (though that grinds). After a while, it's the sheer galling indignity of being asked to prove, pay, and prove all over again that you're a worthy parent. Any true parent will tell you that that is impossible to prove in advance.
Amazing strength, amazing power - he (Ron Swoboda) can grind the dust out of the bat. He will be great, super even wonderful. Now, if he can only learn to catch a fly ball.
We can prevent Europe from becoming a spiritless machine that, in the end, grinds to a halt.
The only thing poverty does is grind down your nerve endings to a point that you can work harder and stoop lower than most people are willing to. It chips away a person's dreams to the point that the hopelessness shows through, and the dreamer accepts that hard work and borrowed houses are all this life will ever be.
Politics is the gizzard of society, full of grit and gravel, and the two political parties are its opposite halves - sometimes split into quarters - which grind on each other. Not only individuals but states have thus a confirmed dyspepsia.
What ever truth drops on it eventually grinds to a powder.
To me the Universe was all void of Life, of Purpose, of Volition, even of Hostility; it was one huge, dead, immeasurable Steam-engine, rolling on, in its dead indifference, to grind me limb from limb. Oh vast gloomy, solitary Golgotha, and Mill of Death! Why was the living banished thither companionless, conscious? Why, if there is no Devil; nay, unless the Devil is your God?
We remember the grind of the insurgency -- the roadside bombs, the sniper fire, the suicide attacks. From the 'triangle of death' to the fight for Ramadi; from Mosul in the north to Basra in the south -- your will proved stronger than the terror of those who tried to break it.
The cramped monotony of my existence grinds me away by the grain.
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