Best 2736 quotes in «loneliness quotes» category

Seasons happened and things got colder and harder and suddenly I found myself smoking circles in the air by myself in the snow and I was not okay.

Search the whole world until you meet yourself.

Second semester will get better, had to get better, Madison thought. If nothing else, through sheer force of will, perhaps she could make it better. And if she told enough people that things were going to go well this time around, said it out loud repeatedly, maybe she could even convince herself.

See how community is only a good thing when you're a part of it.

Seeking for perfection is like seeking for mental health without a definition of what it is. But if psychology and psychiatry are as lost as the people they consistently evaluate, and people are as imperfect as the imperfection they see in others, then I have to conclude that it is as wise to accept judgment as it is to judge first the ones who judge us. But it is also as wise as it is foolish to do so; for it is like seeking for a definition that can’t entirely define us. Because if one answer can explain a thousand questions, a billion questions would never amount to the importance of an answer, which the simpler it is, the more questions it answers. And in that sense, I must say, we are imperfectly perfect.

Seeing thou hast now given me the way, I will proceed to speak before thee: for our mother, of whom thou hast told me that she is young, draw now nigh unto age.

Seek me not in your richness, O dear, search not amidst the words talkative. Find me in the moments of loneliness, in the silence of your mighty soul. Within the void of intimate being this is me, the majestic blue - the cessation of all; and here your are in the celestial path.

Seek tears. Expect loneliness

Self-discovery changes everything, including your relationships with people. When you find your authentic self, those who loved your mask are disappointed. You may end up alone, but you don’t need to stay alone. While it’s painful to sever old connections, it’s not a tragedy. It’s an opportunity. Now, you can find people who understand the importance of looking for truth and being authentic. Now, you can find people who want to connect deeply, like you’ve always wanted to, instead of constant small talk and head games. Now, you can have real intimacy. Now, you can find your tribe.

Selfishness leads to loneliness.

Self-observation is simply the observation of an internal state and an external event. It is pure awareness, which gives one the ability to choose one's actions. Only by having the choice can one perform what is right.

Sentirse solo no es sentirse inferior, sino distinto. El sentimiento de soledad no es una ilusión —como a veces lo es el de inferioridad— sino la expresión de un hecho real: somos, de verdad, distintos. Y, de verdad, estamos solos.

¡Se sentía tan sola y abandonada! Un chile en nogada olvidado en una charola después de un gran banquete no se sentiría peor que ella.

Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness forever. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other passions, but revenge remains—revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die, but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict.

She almost never said his name. Because it made the dreams too real. Because it made the loneliness too tangible when she woke up.

She asked me "Do you enjoy your loneliness?" And I said "Yes I enjoy my loneliness. It gives me time to think and write.

She asked me whether I had learned to like big cities. 'I'd always be miserable in a city. I'd die of lonesomeness. I like to be where I know every stack and tree, and where all the ground is friendly. I want to live and die here.

She'd been in love with the man, and love is a scary thing. If not reciprocated, it can turn a person into a monster.

She closes my door behind her and all the petty stresses of life reappear, eager to make up for lost time. I've developed a phobia of that door closing for the last time, of losing her in any way or of being lost.

She cured me of my sadness.

She'd been cross so much of the time and often about small things. Looking back at herself, she thought that her crossness was like a shapeless overcoat, covering loneliness, and it wasn't the old loneliness she'd felt after her mother died, or even an adult version of it, but something different and more punishing.

She doesn't give directions but there is a pot of gold at the end of her rainbow...Find it. If you can.

She deserved at least one person who saw her and knew how good she was.

She'd spent the decades barricading herself from life, setting the conditions for love so high no one else could ever meet them. Few, in fact, had made any effort. It was a simple thing, in the end, to hide in plain sight. The world did not prevent you from becoming what you were determined to become.

She didn't understand how other people did it, how they just strolled right up to strangers and started conversations -- how they made themselves into people strangers would ever want to meet. She wasn't shy, not exactly. She was afraid.

She’d sworn she wouldn’t end up like her little brother, but loneliness didn’t arrive with flashing bulbs and a warning label. The descent was as simple and complex as a faked smile, white lies about being “okay,” and the nod and acceptance as her own peers didn’t delve deeper, shutting the coffin lid for her.

She felt tears dripping down her cheeks, and she wondered if anyone would ever miss her if she simply sat here, drinking coffee for days and days, years and years.

She had collected experiences, I realized, as much as she had collected all these things. As we moved her out of her own life, she seemed lonelier that I hope I'll ever be.

She had said that she preferred to be alone for so many years that it was now one of those things that equally well might or might not be true.

She had learnt a painful lesson, she thought – that as they die, the ones we love, we lose our witnesses, our watchers, those who know and understand the tiny little meaningless patterns, those words drawn in water with a stick. And there is nothing left but the endless flow.

She has that voraciousness about children. She swoops in on them. Even I, in public was a beloved child. She'd parade me into town, smiling and teasing me, tickling me as she spoke with people on the sidewalks. When we got home, she'd trail off to her room like an unfinished sentence, and I would sit outside with my face pressed against her door, and replay the day in my head, searching for clues to what I had done to displease her. I have one memory that catches in me like a nasty clump of blood. Marian was dead about two years, and my mother had a cluster of friends come over for afternoon drinks. For hours, the child was cooed over, smothered with red lipstick kisses, tidied up with tissues, then lipstick smacked again. I was suppose to be reading in my room, but I sat at the top of the stairs watching. My mother finally was handed the baby, and she cuddled it ferociously. Oh, how, wonderful it is to hold a baby again! Adora jiggled it on her knee, walked it around the rooms, whispered to it, and I looked down from above like a spiteful little god, the back of my hand placed against my face, imagining how it felt to be cheek to cheek with my mother.

She imagined herself as some sort of vessel to be filled up with love. But it wasn't like that. The love was within her all the time, and its only renewal came from giving it away.

She lives in a world of her own – a world of – little glass ornaments…

She just kept it to herself, as she kept so many things to herself.

She is sensitive. She is tender. And she needs you to stay. But you are a wanderer. You have spent days and nights in loneliness. And you have become addicted to your loneliness.

She: I want to come into your life so that you would feel less lonely. He: But I love my loneliness. She: I want to give you a happy and cosy life. He: But I love my waywardness.

She knew all the indices to the idle lonely, never bought a small tube of toothpaste, never dropped a magazine in her shopping card.

She loved sinking into her bed on evenings like this, but apparently she shouldn't, because it worried her aunts, who thought she ought to be out dancing. It worried her a little bit, too, because what if they were right, and because sometimes a great loneliness welled up in her and threatened all the dams she built to hold it back. You couldn't cure loneliness by wallowing in it, up above the world, on an island removed from everything. She knew that. But she had such a hard time with all the cures. They seemed rough and brusque and brutal, as if they abused her skin with a pot scrubber . . . forcing herself into a mass of people, a stranger among strangers. . . . But it was much more tempting to curl up with a book under her thick white comforter. Still, sometimes after she curled up, she regretted her lack of courage and felt bleakly lonely. It was important to have a really good book.

She might get lonely at times. But that was to be expected. The only way to stop those feelings was to live a life devoted to others. That was her true purpose in life. She was a mere background character in other people's lives.

She needed intimacy and a sense of partaking in, not just observing, real life.

She never wished for the thing what she is experiencing. It is her inner voice that became her enemy.

She raised her head and stared at the birds with him, caught in a web of awe and loneliness.

She saw that he knew what loneliness was, that he understood why it might be raining inside a person even when the sun shone, that sadness needed no immediate cause.

She sensed in him loneliness, hunger for the sound of a voice. She had heard her uncle speak of the loneliness of lonely camp-fires and how all men working or hiding or lost in the wilderness would see sweet faces in the embers and be haunted by soft voices.

she slammed the door and was gone. I looked at the closed door and at the doorknob and strangely I didn't feel alone.

She stood awkwardly for another endless moment -- a total and obvious outsider, even though this was her house where she lived. It felt like she didn't belong anywhere. It felt like she probably never would.

She's never really wanted to be the only person, she's never been such a fan of being alone.

She thought it must be a lonely life for a boy who hated books.

She thirsted for love, but found only a mirage. Some hearts are a desert you can die wandering in.

She turned and walked down the musty, dimly-lighted corridor, along a strip of carpeting that still clung together only out of sheer stubbornness of skeletal weave. Doors, dark, oblivious, inscrutable, sidling by; enough to give you the creeps just to look at them. All hope gone from them, and from those who passed in and out through them. Just one more row of stopped-up orifices in this giant honeycomb that was the city. Human beings shouldn't have to enter such doors, shouldn't have to stay behind them. No moon ever entered there, no stars, no anything at all. They were worse than the grave, for in the grave is absence of consciousness. And God, she reflected, ordered the grave, for all of us; but God didn't order such burrows in a third-class New York City hotel.