Best 9217 quotes in «feelings quotes» category

I can feel a cool breeze.

I came unglued and went back together the wrong way and fell apart again.

I cannot perceive that you're still a girl. Ur kisses don't seem so innocent. They just drive me crazy!" #MilanoVeneziani. #ItalianPassion

I can’t control my feelings, but I’m learning to have a say in how much my feelings control me.

I can't imagine it's easy to like someone, hate them, and then lose them before any of those feelings are resolved.

I can't know your feelings", he said ,"if you don't know them yourself.

I can't help it. You bring it out in me," he accused. "No," I said. "You're choosing to let me get to you. Don't. It's all in the mind.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up in a cold sweat thinking I’m being chased by a grunting, disfigured man wielding a hatchet. Usually we're at an abandoned campground, which leads me to believe this is a subconscious mashup of Friday the 13th and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. He never catches me. The only thing that ever happens is I'm running and he's chasing. It's pretty horrible. I know it’s not real, but it feels real, and you know how feelings are. They make everything real.

Cariad, nothing about this is casual to me. But if you want a long, sensitive discussion about my feelings, I can't help you. I'm from North Wales, where we express ourselves by throwing rocks at trees. I've had more feelings in the past half-hour that I have in my entire life, and I'm at my limit." "That still doesn't -" "I love whatever it is you're made of. All of it.

I closed my eyes and turned my face into the cold wind. When I felt it swept along my skin there was no past. No future. Just now.

I chose love today and every single day.

I closed my eyes, feeling a point of infinite love and infinite grief, and comfort in knowing, for the first time, that I have infinite space inside for both.

I couldn't bear the thought of Alex looking at me like I was a freak. It was bad enough that the looked at me as Jack's sister.

I couldn't get to love but love got me.

I couldn’t stop crying. This fact in and of itself alarmed me, because for so long, I hadn’t been able to cry. And now, here I was, weeping. It didn’t feel therapeutic. I know scientists promise that all the negative hormones are being released as you cry, but I didn’t notice my emotional stability rising as the tears fell. I just knew I was crying, and my whole body was shaking, and I couldn’t make it stop.

I could see the longing in your eyes.

I couldn’t sleep without you. Not because I needed you, but because your body was a temperature I was used to being next to.

I’d allowed myself to feel love –yes, love– for another person in a way I’d once sworn to myself I never would. I’d become completely vulnerable, and now I’d been torn apart with hurt and catapulted onto a path I might never have taken otherwise. I’d risked my life for an outsider. For a stranger. Worse, I had a feeling I was going to do it again.

I danced as he twirled in and out of consciousness, and there we were, one in love and the other astray.

I’d bite myself and take out my feelings with my teeth.

I’d give you – if I thought one day you might return my feelings …

I did not like this feeling of having feelings.

I didn't belong in this world anymore. It's not that I wanted to be dead, I just felt like I should be.

I didn't respond to him. Couldn't speak at all. Couldn't look at his self-mutilation--not even the clean, bandaged version of it. Instead, I looked at my own rough, stained house painter's hand. They seemed more like puppets than hands. I had no feelings in it either.

I didn't speak her language, but it didn't matter Her face said it all!

I didn't want to be ordinary," I mumbled. My mother looked up. "What ordinary, Charley?" "You know. Someone you forget." From the other room came the squeals of children. Miss Thelma turned her chin to the sound. She smiled,"That's what keeps me from being forgotten.

I didn't know what to think, but what I felt was magnetic and so big it ached like the moon had entered my chest and filled it up. The only think I could compare it to was the feeling I got one time when I walked from the peach stand and saw the sun spreading across the late afternoon, setting the top of the orchard on fire while darkness collected underneath. Silence had hovered over my head, beauty multiplying in the air, the trees so transparent I felt like I could see through t something pure inside them. My chest ached then, too, this very same way.

I didn't pretend to know Eli at all, but even so, I'd noticed that his manner was slightly hard to read. It was something in the way he talked that made it difficult to tell whether he was kidding or serious or what. This bothered me. Or intrigued me. Or both.

I didn’t love you to seek revenge. I didn’t love you out of loneliness or unhappiness. I didn’t love you for any of the misguided reasons that time might convince you I did. I just loved you because you’re you.

I didn’t need to be a writer to know that I could. Did you have to become a penis to act like a dick?

I’d never dreamed anybody could love me the way he did. And even when he proved it to me time and again – I still could hardly believe it was true.

I'd never recited poetry to anyone before; I've never done it since. I have a highly sensitive, built-in fuse mechanism that keeps me from opening up too far, from revealing my feelings, and reciting poetry makes me feel as though I'm talking about my feelings and standing on one leg at the same time.

I do not know what love is I do not know if this is love or what love is or if love's a thing, if it can be worn like an old coat, or felt like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or if it is a sensation, like that first time the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or the climax of masturbation, or if love is an invention, and we all manufacture our own versions - some bright, some dull, some marbled, but all with labels and stickers that say: this is love. I do not know what love is or if I can say what I think love is, could be or should be. If we were to ever sit on the marble floor, on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's and I were to tell you that this is love, slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar. and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving for I don't know what love is or if it can be known. Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching for what love means, we will sit outside - you and I - amidst the debris of our meanderings, our bent backs resting on the rusted iron railing, our skin pimpled, throats scratched from prayers uttered to absent gods and we would be in love and believe that love is this: love is all the spaces, non-events, the unspoken words and everything in between the first second of these thirty years to this. Love is this.

I do not have silver nor gold to give you, but i have a heart of gold to keep you.

I do not know if this is love or what love is or if love's a thing, if it can be worn like an old coat, or felt like harsh fabric on naked flesh, or if it is a sensation, like that first time the brakes of my bike failed while riding downhill or the climax of masturbation, or if love is an invention, and we all manufacture our own versions - some bright, some dull, some marbled, but all with labels and stickers that say: this is love. I do not know what love is or if I can say what I think love is, could be or should be. If we were to ever sit on the marble floor, on one of those dry, electricity free, 45 degree Delhi nights, sharing a drink of Old Monk's and I were to tell you that this is love, slap me for I would either be drunk or a liar. and if i were drunk, I won't be drunk on love or your loving for I don't know what love is or if it can be known. Maybe, one night, after thirty years of searching for what love means, we will sit outside - you and I - amidst the debris of our meanderings, our bent backs resting on the rusted iron railing, our skin pimpled, throats scratched from prayers uttered to absent gods and we would be in love and believe that love is this: love is all the spaces, non-events, the unspoken words and everything in between the first second of these thirty years to this. Love is this.

I don’t believe he deserves the thousands of poems I’ve written about him, but life doesn’t follow rules. We do things for people who don’t necessarily deserve it. But we liked it, we loved it and fell in love enough to write about it.

I do not write poetry; I take words and dip them in feelings.

I don't care' 'You do.' Her inner voice!

I don't even know whether past feelings and memories deserve any respect at all. Maybe they're no more important than a pinch of pain from an injury decades old. Feelings and memories rise and pass every day, like the weather. Only important at the moment. Why not just notice them and let them go?

I don't get it - how you can feel like there are no consequences for living with your feelings on your sleeve.

I don't care about situations.i care about feelings

I don't know. There's just something kind of mortifying to me about the intensity of those feelings. I remember them so clearly.

I don't feel like a person at all: I am something to be loaded and unloaded, like a sofa or a cuckoo clock. I am something to be tossed into a junkyard, thrown into the river, if necessary. I don't feel real anymore. I feel like I could disappear.

I don’t intend to fight with anyone; I have only one weapon of love. I want to win the world with love. What the world calls love, is really worldly love. [True] Love is when even if you curse me, I would not get ‘depressed’ and when you garland me with flowers, I would not become ‘elevated’. In true love, there would not be any changes. Changes can occur in the intent and feelings (bhaav) of the body, but not in ‘pure love’.

I don't know about you but I find I want to resist Buber here. Because personally I am pretty attached to my own feelings (and the complex, fascinating personality they imply). But even if I can't accept Buber totally here, I do find him a useful correction to some of my worse instincts. Looking at my life through a Buber lens, for example, I see that it is quite possible that my feelings, as strong as they may be, may disclose no more of reality to me than is afforded by the outline of my own self-image. This is useful knowledge. Every day I am confronted by situations in which I must judge the reality or otherwise of a situation by way of my feelings about it (this is especially acute in marital arguments). But just because I feel something very strongly, does this make it true? Isn't it possible that in may cases where my feelings are strong I may indeed be no different to all those delusional girls in the Bieber signing queue, who have so many feelings for him, after all, so very many sincere, deep, excruciating feelings, which are, of course, what define their identity, what makes of each of them Beliebers ...

I don't see how you mortals do it, these feelings you must endure. they will ruin you in the end.

I don't love you, you know. I'm merely crazy about you.

I don't possess these thoughts I have --- they possess me. I don't possess these feelings I have --- They obsess me.

I don’t think you ever really understood…. …. All the love I had in the world went to you.

I don't want what my parents have. I want the couple in the park.