Best 5825 quotes in «hurt quotes» category

Where there is doubt (shanka), there is misery. The moment one begins to doubt the knowledge that, 'I am Chandubhai,' misery arises. Once one attains the Knowledge that, 'I am pure Soul,' one become doubtfree (nishank), thus misery leaves.

Whether it was in the maze of my fantastical mind or the allure of her gossamer eyes, they took me to undiscovered worlds of azure and metamorphosis. The air shimmered with every breath, the water tightened with every sound.

Which was just well: goodbyes had never been my strong suit anyway, and lately my life had felt like an unbroken series of them. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.

While McMurphy laughs. Rocking farther and farther backward against the cabin top,spreading his laugh across the water. Laughing at the girl,at the guys, at George,at me sucking my bleeding thumb, at the captain back at the pier and the bicycle rider and the service station guys and the five thousand houses and the Big Nurse and all of it. Because he knows you have to laugh at the things that hurt you just to keep yourself in balance, just to keep the world from running you plumb crazy. He know's there's a painful side; he knows my thumb smarts and his girl friend has a bruised breast and the doctor is losing his glasses, but he won't let the pain blot out the humor no more'n he'll let the humor blot out the pain.

Who hurt you, once, so far beyond repair that you would meet each overture with curling lip? While we, who knew you well, your friends, (the focus of your scorn) could see your courage in the face of fear, your wit, and thoughtfulness, and will remember you with something close to love.

Whom will you commit violence against? The Supreme Lord resides in every living being, so whom will you hurt?

Who was it that hurt you, stole the light out of your eyes? Cut a hole in your heart and let the love drain dry? Who was so damn careless, to leave you with such scars? Where will you find healing? Right here, within my arms.

Why are you behaving like this? You know how much I love you … and I believe you love me as much, so why are you avoiding me?

Why aren't you in school? I see you every day wandering around." "Oh, they don't miss me," she said. "I'm antisocial, they say. I don't mix. It's so strange. I'm very social indeed. It all depends on what you mean by social, doesn't it? Social to me means talking to you about things like this." She rattled some chestnuts that had fallen off the tree in the front yard. "Or talking about how strange the world is. Being with people is nice. But I don't think it's social to get a bunch of people together and then not let them talk, do you? An hour of TV class, an hour of basketball or baseball or running, another hour of transcription history or painting pictures, and more sports, but do you know, we never ask questions, or at least most don't; they just run the answers at you, bing, bing, bing, and us sitting there for four more hours of film-teacher. That's not social to me at all. It's a lot of funnels and lot of water poured down the spout and out the bottom, and them telling us it's wine when it's not. They run us so ragged by the end of the day we can't do anything but go to bed or head for a Fun Park to bully people around, break windowpanes in the Window Smasher place or wreck cars in the Car Wrecker place with the big steel ball. Or go out in the cars and race on the streets, trying to see how close you can get to lampposts, playing 'chicken' and 'knock hubcaps.' I guess I'm everything they say I am, all right. I haven't any friends. That's supposed to prove I'm abnormal. But everyone I know is either shouting or dancing around like wild or beating up one another. Do you notice how people hurt each other nowadays?

Why did it have to be so hard? Why couldn't there be a happily-ever-after ride-into-the-sunset feeling all the time?

Why didn't you write all this time? Did you not remember us in a song? A dance? In the skies littered with stars? Did you not get drunk? Why didn’t you write all this time? Did you not remember us in a film? A book? In idyllic dusks and dawns? Did you not get high? It is good that you didn't. For all is well. I am drunk and dazed. I have already forgotten you and your bewitching ways.

Why did the world go on being so beautiful in spite of the ugliness he had experienced? The lake was beautiful, serenely beautiful. The forest was beautiful, greenly beautiful. Lake and forest, the whole shimmering world was painfully beautiful. He loved this world, but he was too hurt to enjoy it.

Why do you stay with me?" he whispered. He wished he hadn't said it once the words were out of of his mouth, wished he could pull them back, but Laurie didn't seem fazed at all. In fact, he just smiled a crooked smile and kissed him again. "Because I don't want to dance by myself," he whispered.

Why is it, I thought, that we're so willing to hurt the ones we care about the most?

Why is it that my heart hurts for that one miracle that did not happen?

Why wish for something that will never be? It ends in nothing but heartbreak. We wish, then we think about how things would be if our wishes came true. And we feel happy thinking about those things. But then we wake up and realise that our wishes don’t have wings. And it hurts because all the happiness that we thought of, was never real. Hold on to what you have, try to find your happiness in what is, rather than what should or could have been.

Why wait to forgive and let go only after you have sufficiently wallowed in your despair? Why not forgive and let go now?

Willingly release the hurt. Don't let the heartache define you.

winter is no stranger to cold hearts.

With Deep Hurt comes Empathy

Without haters, you can't see the level of your progress, that shows you that haters are necessary evil.

With perseverance and endurance you can survive any storm.

Words are just words, Who they come from gives them Relevance, And this Relevance gives them the Power to Hurt you. Make those who Hurt you Irrelevant.

With ravenous passion and reckless ambition he forged his thoughts into words, obsessed with the notion that dying would not be the last thing he would do.

Women have rooms inside of us men cannot fathom. It’s where we store the depths of the hurt we’ve been dealt. Where we store the deep love we never want to lose.

Words, he knew, could scar.

Woman is not at fault, sex is not at fault; the fault is in your tendencies [vruti]. The tendencies indeed interfere and cause misery.

Words cut deeper than knives. A knife can be pulled out, words are embedded into our souls.

Words can hurt, but words can also inspire.

Work like you don't need the money. Dance like no one is watching. And love like you've never been hurt.

Words are like razor blades: it hurts you, but it also changes the looks on your face.

Woven words are little conviction when I present myself as a man of fiction. And you a woman of lies and deceit, stumbling forward on two left feet. You are an exquisite figurine of an incomprehensible place, While I, a soldier of my cause, my race. A single sip of you would satiate thirst, hunger and empty. Yet, you stand unmoved, comfortable knowing you could stave desires plenty. To my heart, you are known as 'shatter.' Between saint and sin, you are the latter. End, not even my finest words will matter. The still, the silence, even then, you are famine to my soul. My chest lacks certain weight now; I simply wish to be whole. Now, I stand before you broken, humbled and so bare, Only to see your infinite eyes brimming with no care. Your heart is a cauldron that burns darkest fuel. And I a remnant of smog, the overly-bitter fool. The man of fiction stumbles forward on two left feet, The woman of lies weaves words of conviction and deceit.

Wounds are inspirations to make us stronger than the sun which blazes the day to be longer

Wounds may heal Bad memories may fade away And some names may be forgotten But the way you make people feel about themselves lasts forever" And forever more …

Woven words are little conviction when I present myself as a man of fiction.

Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud, but I walked numbly through the park, round and round, 40 times for 4 hours just wanting to make it through the day. There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got through and the sky was so blue I couldn’t look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories, but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desk tick tick tick me not making a sound and some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind, but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine. This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely ways but you can not let it. I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use. the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness, thinking it will help but it only feeds the fire and I don't want to hurt myself anymore. I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me—little me. From nowhere at all. And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again. It will always be spring again. And there will always be a new day.

Yes, he wanted to tell Krystof, it will hurt. Even if you don't get sick like them. It will hurt.

Years pass by swiftly and the hope within me wanes and fades away like a branch cut off from a tree. Will I ever find you? Will my heart ever rest upon your chest and hear the sound of your heartbeat? Thankful to the Gods above that you exist after all and I have finally found you. Will the doubts within me be erased completely when my eyes gaze upon yours as I witness you in flesh? Will my hands ever feel your warmth and caress your skin? Will my mouth ever taste your lips and indulge on the juices that flow from it? Will my heart caper scamper triumphantly at the joy of finding you? As the doubts and fears within me are silenced to death? Will I meet you? I wonder.

Yet I am not writing with ordinary ink, but with red blood that drips from my heart. All its wounds long scarred over have opened and it throbs and hurts, and now and then a tear falls on the paper.

You and me," I said,"we both got the same kind of hurt inside us." She nodded, and suddenly, just like that, I knew I could trust her with my life.

You are strong enough to sing as you wish, not as your pain has forced to. You aren't your hurt. You're other than that. You are not the broken things you've been.

You are not broken. Someone who did not love you, convinced you, you are...

You are here and it hurts and the world feels impossibly heavy and you are shouting bargains at the moon and there is nobody else to hear you It is the darkest night you’ve ever lived through You’ve lived through. You’ve lived. Do you hear me? You live. You make it. You survive.

You are strong enough to sing as you wish, not as your pain has forced you to. You aren't your hurt. You're other than that. You are not the broken things you've been.

You are whole today, looking back at fragments of the past. Such a hollow foundation for such a powerful person.

you brought other people close. look at me, i am still the same i was before ; having just two best friends in my case. and you are not happy with me. you hold grudges. So then free yourself. Remove this tag of best friend and feel free.

You bothered yourself and changed the season. I was left behind with your awful sounds.

You can be: Cool Awesome Funny Ignorant Cold ... But in the end you always gonna hurt somebody.

You can be hurt, not by what others think of you, but by what you think of what they think or you think they think of you.

You can't avoid hurt. Your only choice is to live through it.