Best 5825 quotes in «hurt quotes» category

And then I realized that the close people to my heart, are actually the ones who hurt me the most.

And they can’t understand, what hurts more— Missing the other person, or pretending not to.

And this time as the lashes come, try to think about the pain, instead of against it, because there is not one single aspect of life, past, present, or future, that does not tear your reason from you, to think on it. So think about the pain. This pain after all has its limits. You can chart its passage through your body. It has a beginning, middle, end. Imagine if it had a color. The first cut of the lash is what, red? Red, spreading into a brilliant yellow. And this one again, red, red, no yellow, and then white, white, white, white. . .Why have you incarcerated yourself in this palazzo of torture chambers, why do you not leave this place? Because you are a monster and this is a school for monsters, and if you leave here, then you will be completely, completely alone! Alone with this! Don't weep in front of these strangers. Swallow it down. Don't weep in front of these strangers! Cry to heaven, cry to heaven, cry to heaven.

And though they fell as ashes, their shadows drifted as leaves.

And they danced with laughter and tears. They swung each other round and round, the first and last time in years.

--and yet, in my heart, I always knew we loved each other, a part of me understanding that the passion with which we hurt each other came from something strong enough to withstand the blows we inflicted. Looking back, I guess I always felt that we would have time to work things out eventually, not imagining what was to come; that we would one day have to cut all ties and never speak again.

Anger is a deception. You engage it thinking you'll feel better but ultimately it drills you deeper in the hurt.

An intricate string made up of infinite knots and curls. Taking a step back, it really did seem so fragile. As if the smallest breeze of opportunity would cause it to snap. It held strong though, fastened to me and you as a line of steel.

An outline, my body, no mass or feeling, A dark reflection spread from floor to ceiling, The faceless copycat stalks me day after day, A personal eclipse of the sun never going astray, Each movement mine in a world of its own, Whispering shades unseen of a different home, A skewed yet comparable story occurs every day, Removed, though not far, less than halfway, The whiter the glow the blacker the stain, An ethereal cachet remaining midst the acidic rain, A trust and intimacy of a curious nature, I follow, it follows, we follow a stranger.

An unceasingly grateful life can easily heal from the wounds of hurt and setback. It can also easily shed resentment, hate, and bitterness…

Anyone who claims good or evil isn't one or either, they're just a liar... the worst kind of liar... the liar that doesn't even know they're lying. We're human. We're good during the day and evil at night, half the time those roles are reversed, that's what it's all about.

anything can be a drug if you love it.

Any sentence that combined "I love you" and "but" could not be good.

Anything you do to prevent inauspicious contemplation (durdhyan, to hurt others by mind,body,speech,etc.) is dharmadhyan (auspicious contemplation, to not hurt anyone, to give happiness to others).

A part of me knew... from the moment I saw her; her death would have been one wound too many that day.

A perpetrator may have hurt someone for a few minutes of his/her life and may even regret it, but the survivor lives with the pain, triggers, shame and fear for a lifetime.

A person who faces unique miseries learns much. All time transports him rich insights.

A person you loved has used you and hurt you, but there are more people to love, new paths to pursue, and noble tasks that only you can accomplish-for you and for your entire kingdom. If you must dwell on something dwell on that.

A premature death does not only rob one of the countless instances where one would have experienced pleasure, it also saves one from the innumerable instances where one would have experienced pain.

Are you hurt?" "Absolutely," I said. "Especially in my everywhere.

Are you hurt?” the woman asks. “Just my—” Even after the water, her voice comes out as a dry hiss. She clears her throat and tries again. “Just my ankle.” “Can you tell us where the others are? Are they . . . ?” Charlie fades off, but she knows how the question ends. “They’re still out there. Still alive.” Hallelujah will not think about the alternative. But by not trying not to think about it, she’s thinking about it, and it’s making her feel panicky. “I was the only one who could walk, so I—” She gulps. Draws in a shaky breath. Charlie dismounts his bike and squats down next to her. “Go on,” he says. His voice is soft. His accent is southern. But not hillbilly southern. Deep South. He’s not from around here either. She can’t believe her mind is wandering like this. She tries to focus. “We found—Jonah found a trail, and I followed it to this road. They’re at a campsite by the trail. I . . .” Hallelujah falters. “I don’t know how far. I wasn’t walking very fast. We haven’t eaten in . . . a while. And Rachel—she’s sick. She was throwing up. And Jonah cut his leg and it wouldn’t stop bleeding. . . .” “Jesus,” the woman says.

Art is created by artists. If ever he’d try to take lessons, it would be too many rules, too many steps. It would make his head hurt, not being able to splatter his emotions onto paper in his own way.

Are you in love with him?’ She kept her lips tightly closed as if holding something back. ‘Are you in love with me?’ She tried to answer but nothing came out. She lowered her eyes to the floor.

Arrogance will kill anything and everything you ever possibly have.

As always, we realize that at the time of goodbye, even thank you is lonely

Ariel: "Why do such stories always sound so sad? Why can't people part on more amiable terms?" Danny: "Human nature," he said. "When feelings change and a person is at their most insecure, it's a matter of personal survival, I think. It's not always meant to hurt, but it often does.

Artadhyan (mournful contemplation that hurts the self) and raudradhyan (wrathful contemplation that hurts the self and others) occur as long as one has not met a Gnani Purush (the Enlightened One). To look for ways to become free from both of these has been called in this time cycle as dharmadhyan (auspicious contemplation that gives happiness to one’s own self & others). Otherwise, there is no dharmadhyan in this current time cycle. Therefore, whatever prevents artadhyan and raudradhyan is called dharmadhyan.

As far as I can figure, the way that it works is this: everyone has something that happened to them. The thing that we each carry. And you can see it in people, if you look. See it in the way someone walks, in the way someone takes a compliment, sometimes you can just see it in someone’s eyes. In one moment of desperation, of fear, in one quick moment you can see that thing that happened. Everyone has it. The thing that keeps you up at night, or makes you not trust people, or stops love. The thing that hurts. And to stop it, to stop the hurt, you have to turn it into a story. And not just a story you play over and over for yourself, but a story that you tell. A story’s not a story unless you tell it. And once you tell it, it’s not yours anymore. You give it away. And once you give it away, it’s not something that hurts you anymore, it’s something that helps everyone who hears it. It’s the kind of thing that’s hard to explain. It’s probably best if we just show you how it works.

As long as anger-pride-deceit-greed (kashays – the ones that gives pain to soul) have not gone away, one has not attained vitraag’s (the enlightened one’s) religion in the slightest. The religion of the Enlightened One’s (Vitaraag Dharm) means absence of anger-pride-deceit-greed (kashays).

As long as it still hurts, it isn’t love yet.

As I watched the sky morph shades of amber and amethyst, of fiery orange and smoldering pink, I always wondered if colors and images like these once inspired the greats before us to construct their beauty and masterpieces.

A small hole in his shirt revealed a gooey red blob right in the meaty part above his armpit, blood pouring from the wound. It hurt. It hurt bad. If he’d thought his headache downstairs had been tough, this was like three or four of those, all smashed into a coil of pain right there in his shoulder. And spreading through the rest of his body. Newt was at his side, looking down with worried eyes. “He shot me.” It just came out, a new number one on the list of the dumbest things he’d ever said. The pain, like living metal staples running through his insides, pricking and scratching with their little sharp points. He felt his mind going dark for the second time that day.

As much as I cared about him, I wasn’t a slave to fate. I could choose to ignore my feelings, strong as they were. It would be painful, but no more so than letting myself pine for my friend.

As much as it hurts, I would rather miss someone than hit someone.

Bad things are always gonna happen in life. People will hurt you. But you can't use that as an excuse to hurt someone back.

Astrid felt a towering wave of disgust. She was furious with Sam. Furious with Little Pete. Mad at the whole world around her. Sickened by everyone and everything. And mostly, she admitted, sick of herself. So desperately sick of being Astrid the Genius. “Some genius,” she muttered. The town council, headed by that blond girl, what was her name? Oh right: Astrid. Astrid the Genius. Head of the town council that had let half the town burn to the ground. Down in the basement of town hall Dahra Baidoo handed out scarce ibuprofen and expired Tylenol to kids with burns, like that would pretty much fix anything, as they waited for Lana to go one by one, healing with her touch. Astrid could hear the cries of pain. There were several floors between her and the makeshift hospital. Not enough floors. Edilio staggered in. He was barely recognizable. He was black with soot, dirty, dusty, with ragged scratches and scrapes and clothing hanging in shreds. “I think we got it,” he said, and lay straight down on the floor. Astrid knelt by his head. “You have it contained?” But Edilio was beyond answering. He was unconscious. Done in. Howard appeared next, in only slightly better shape. Some time during the night and morning he’d lost his smirk. He glanced at Edilio, nodded like it made perfect sense, and sank heavily into a chair. “I don’t know what you pay that boy, but it’s not enough,” Howard said, jerking his chin at Edilio. “He doesn’t do it for pay,” Astrid said. “Yeah, well, he’s the reason the whole town didn’t burn. Him and Dekka and Orc and Jack. And Ellen, it was her idea.

At the risk of hurting your feelings, I think you should know that some kisses are more special than others.

A wave of hurt broke over Francie and left her weak when it was passed. Another wave came, broke and receded. She found her way down to the cellar of her house and sat in the darkest corner on a heap of burlap sacks and waited while the hurt waves swept over her. As each wave spent itself and a new one gathered, she trembled. Tensely she sat there waiting for them to stop. If they didn't stop, she'd have to die--she'd have to die.

...baby, it's never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows how poor that person is, it doesn't hurt you. So don't let Mrs Dubose get you down. She had enough troubles or her own.

Be careful how close you get to someone... It just ends up hurting more than not having no one to love to begin with.

Because everything worth having hurts.

Be careful what you say for you can never take back the poison you threw

Because I love you. And I hurt you. I hurt the person I love most in the world, and i will never forgive myself.

Because Jeremiah liked to hurt like he liked to breathe—it was an inevitable part of existence.

Because somehow, the sun rises each day. Emerging from the horizon, brighter and more beautiful than the previous day. You'll rise from the horizon too, learning to trust again. Learning to love again. Learning to heal. You'll emerge so bright that the haters will be blinded. And darling, you'll be the sun then, bright and beautiful, but they won't be your sunflowers.

Because she knew already that this would be the thing that would end them. And that in the deepest part of her, she had known it from the beginning, like someone stubbornly ignoring a weed growing until it blocked out the light.

Because—truth?—on the scale of significance, that stuff doesn’t even register. What has me pushed past the boiling point...what has me really, really upset is learning the woman I thought was so incredibly strong I married her on the spot...is actually a quitter who runs from challenge, a coward too afraid to even try, a liar who makes promises she won’t keep and a cynic too bitter to believe what’s right in front of her face. Is that real enough for you?

A thin, polished woman walks in. She sticks out immediately in her expensive looking navy dress, shiny bag and shoes that probably cost more than I make in a month. My breath leaves me when I see that her arm is draped around a younger version of herself. That hair, it's pulled back way too tight now, but I'd run my hands through it a thousand times before. That face, now in layer of makeup that makes her look older than I remember, I'd held it in my calloused hands and kissed those lips goodbye over a year ago. She said she'd never see me again and I learned to accept that. She destroyed me, and I'd moved on. No. Not her. She's not from here anymore. I don't know who that person is anymore.

A trickle of blood slid down his arm. He felt nothing. He only saw it. Because nothing hurt like missing her. He suspected nothing ever would

Be careful of broken people. Their sharp edges may cut you.