Best 2736 quotes in «loneliness quotes» category

There’s a line you never get to cross, as long as you live. The edge of your body. You’re trapped inside your skin, and no matter how many times you reach out to touch a friend or a lover, no matter how close you hold someone or how fiercely you make love, when it begins, when it ends, and all the moments in between, you are still yourself, alone. I know you knew this. It was in all the love songs you wrote. I think it was the hidden impulse we both had, down inside, that made us take razors to our skin, that desire to open up and let the world in, to let ourselves out, to take that sharp thin line of flesh and erase it.

There’s little back roads and little towns sometimes I never heard of them. I start to expect the gas station attendants to know me when I arrive. I get excited that I’ve been there before. I want them to welcome me. I’m disappointed when they don’t. Something that I don’t want to be true starts lookin’ like it’s al that’s true only I don’t know what it is. No. No. I need my marriage. I come here to tell you. I got to stay married. I’m lost without her.

There's a special quality to the loneliness of dusk, a melancholy more brooding even than the night's.

There’s a loneliness that only exists in one’s mind. The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is blink.

There's a lot to be said for being alone. But you and I know, don't we, Flavia, that being alone and being lonely are not at all the same thing?

There shall be confusion also in many places, and the fire shall be oft sent out again, and the wild beasts shall change their places, and menstruate women shall bring forth monsters:

Theres no competition in DESTINY. Run your own RACE and wish others WELL!!!

There's a story behind every "I don't believe in love" "Period

There’s nothing abnormal about loneliness.

There's nothing like standing kissing-close to a beautiful stranger to make you really feel your loneliness.

There's not a lot to do when you don't want to do anything.

There’s nothing lonelier than a hand on glass. Maybe because it’s so rarely reciprocated.

There’s something quiet about you. For example, if you were a radiowave, you’d have your very own wavelength. That’s isolating, I think, because I don’t think everyone can hear you

There's an invisible thread with this universe that connects some people regardless of circumstances. Life should not be the compromises that fail to realise this thread...Life should be a journey to explore and realise this invisible thread

There's something I want to say in this space, but it's an emptiness where there's usually a hug. — Colin Morton to Mary Lee Bragg, 1972

There's not one good thought in that place. There's nothing but waste and want. I can feel his selfish cravings and an abyss of secrets I hope to never know.

There was a story etched in each wrinkle on his forehead-the stories any long life can amass but that only a lonely life locks forever.

There was a real sense of comfort but at the same time it felt oddly tense. The feeling that every little things we said, these conversations, at any moment, they could stop being possible, and so they were precious, it was that feeling, and the sense of the miracle of this shared moment, here and now. Why were we so far apart, even when we are together? It was anice loneliness, like th sensation of washing your face with cold water.

The return of solitude was not quite as Dina expected it to be. These many years I made a virtue of inescapable reality, she thought, calling it peace and quiet.

There was a marvelous, dark lyricism in his voice, the kind of defiance that is rooted in deep loneliness.

There was old sex in the room and loneliness, and expectation, of something without a shape or name. I remember that yearning, and was never the same as the hands that were on us there and then, in the small of the back, or out back, in the parking lot, or in the television room with the sound turned down and only the pictures flickering over lifting flesh. We yearned for the future How did we learn it, that talent for insatiability?

There was no wind which could have swept my thoughts away from my bositerous heart; not that day, not this day and not any other day

There was something odd for him about not feeling lonely. The very fact that he had ceased to be lonely caused him to fear the possibility of becoming lonely again.

There were not words enough in the English language, nor in any language, to make his attitude and conduct intelligible to them.

There were people everywhere but no one was mine, and I was no one's.

There were times when the light of the moon had gone out and she felt a great loneliness. It wasn't for herself. It was for what had happened to the grasses of their land, their waters, not just the massacre there, the slavery, but the killing of the ocean.

There were words on our lips that in our loneliness alone wanted utterance, and the need by itself virtually created the feeling.

There were the endless birthday nights and New Year's Eves of just you in your bed and no one else. There was the welling up at weddings, the glittery eye-prick, when all the couples would get up to dance. Sometimes it felt like your heart was crazed with cracks like your grandmother's old saucers. Sometimes the sight of a Saturday afternoon couple laughing in a park would splinter it completely.

There were two immediate results of my forced loneliness: I began to find company in books, and greater pleasure in music.

The rhythm of solitude, once so intimidating, began to feel comfortable. Aloneness, I was learning, does not have to equal loneliness.

The richest people in the world build networks and invest in people; everyone else looks for work and invests in survival.

The secret tugs at my sleeve. A child looking for attention. It is not a big secret. But it is not the only one either. “Strength in numbers” they say. For they are many. Many little things that – together – weigh tonnes. And take up space. And are quite noisy. The way only a lot of whispers can make noise. And they follow me. Little secrets of omission, desire, and denial. Of indulgence, hedonism, and exploration. Of peeves, passion, and deep-seated fear. Little secrets of despair and disrepair and prohibited thoroughfare.

These be they that have put off the mortal clothing, and put on the immortal, and have confessed the name of God: now are they crowned, and receive palms.

[...] the sense that everyone was incommunicado with everyone else and living on an entirely wrong plane, so that the meaning, the message, the love, or whatever it was that each life contained, never could find its expression.

There was a large crowd around us, and every face in it looked happy. We had little opportunity to talk until we reached the woods, where there were no flowers and no people.

The silence in the house was painful, but I had begun to realize that half of it belonged to me.

The small talk that sprang readily to their lips came to hers only with a tremendous effort. After an opportunity had come and gone, she often scolded herself for not saying this or doing that, for laughing too loud or smiling too little. Whenever she tried to re-create the moment of contact, she was easily rebuffed by the slightest gesture, withdrawing all too quickly if she thought she was in the way. The old stone-and-brick schoolhouse, with its four gabled roofs and round little windows, was the only thing that seemed steadfast to her, while the beings that populated its rooms and thundered down its corridors were unreal and unpredictable. It gripped her like a monstrous truth that she was condemned to lead life without belonging or feeling close to anyone.

These days, loneliness is the new cancer - a shameful, embarrassing thing, brought upon yourself in some obscure way. A fearful, incurable thing thing, so horrifying that you dare not mention it; other people don't want to hear the word spoken aloud for fear that they might too be afflicted, or that it might tempt fate into visiting a similar horror upon them.

The Sodomy sea shall cast out fish, and make a noise in the night, which many have not known: but they shall all hear the voice thereof.

The Solitary As one who has sailed across an unknown sea, among this rooted folk I am alone; the full days on their tables are their own, to me the distant is reality. A new world reaches to my very eyes, a place perhaps unpeopled as the moon; their slightest feelings they must analyze, and all their words have got the common tune. The things I brought with me from far away, compared with theirs, look strangely not the same: in their great country they were living things, but here they hold their breath, as if for shame.

The things I was good at had no real application: addressing envelopes in bubble letters with smiling creatures on the flap. Making sludgy coffee I drank with grave affect. Finding a certain desired song playing on the radio, like a medium scanning for news of the dead.

The thing about our choices is that after we have made them, they turn around and make us.

The thing is, being lonely is like walking in the cold without a coat. It’s uncomfortable, but eventually you go numb. Once you get used to not being lonely, though, the shock of going back is like having your down comforter yanked off at six o’clock on a Minnesota December morning.

The thing is, when you let people get too close, you end up getting hurt.

The thing you did to alleviate the loneliness was to take off your clothes and touch someone, even if you didn’t really know the person well.

The touch of her hand filled me with a wild loneliness.

The tragedy of this world is that no one is happy, whether stuck in a time of pain or of joy. The tragedy of this world is that everyone is alone. For a life in the past cannot be shared with the present. Each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone.

The trap is loneliness, and none of us escapes it. Not even me.

The train blows through town delivering reality, slapping my face and screaming, “You are alone” Rose colored memories drown, taking their last breath.

The trick to loneliness is to spend a lot of time inside one’s head.