Best 195 quotes in «nightmares quotes» category

I thought when the abuse stopped I could move on with my life. Instead I am still running from Brian. The only difference is now I am running from him in my dreams.

It is a law of nature that a dream carried for too long inside you must, eventually, begin to rot.

It's because the door hasn't been closed yet that the nightmares still find their way in.

It's the place where dreams end and nightmares begin—it's the world of Intimate Partner Violence (IPV).

It was so awful! And he kept on looking at me and I knew I must get out of bed or he'd come and touch me. I did, too, but when I got out I wasn't me-I was a little white bunny. And he started out of the room and I had to go with him for fear he'd touch me. It felt so horrid, going out with him and looking back at mother there asleep. "We went into the main part of the house, and one of the big front doors was open, and we went out through it. And then he gave a big jump, and so did I, and it took us clear up into the sky. We couldn't fly, but we kept jumping and jumping. "Sometimes we stayed in the sky a little while, jumping from cloud to cloud, and the moon would get closer and closer and bigger and bigger, and its face would change and get horrible and grin at us until it seemed like its mouth was a mile wide and open, to swallow us up. And then we'd come down again and jump from one cliff to another, and the sea would be roaring down under us, and the waves all grey and cold and moving around and boiling like they were mad or afraid. "We went all over the island and sometimes we jumped over the sea to the mainland and back again; and sometimes I tried to get away and run back to Mother - I thought she'd know me even if I was a bunny - but always, whichever way I turned, the hare was there in front of me, and his teeth were shining. "We kept it up all night, and I was so tired and cold and miserable, and so scared. I didn't know whether he would ever let me go home or whether he would take me to Aunt Sarai. Then finally I did get away and the hare chased me!" She broke off, her voice rising again to a wail. "It was so awful! I ran all over the island, into all sorts of queer little places that I never knew were there before - it seems so different after dark - and finally, when two or three times I'd been so tired that I thought I just couldn't go any farther, before he caught me, I saw the house in front of me and the front door still open and I started to run in, and then I thought - what if they'd planned it that way, and Aunt Sarai had come down from her portrait and was inside there in the dark, waiting for me?

It's time to laugh at your nightmares and have nightmares of your laughter.

It was a time of dark dreams. They washed in like flotsam on the night tide, slipping beneath doorways and window latches, rising through the streets and hills; and the little fishing-town of Scarlock foundered deep.

I’ve long considered becoming a writer to be the death of nightmares. For me at least, since I started writing I hadn’t had any. Something really terrible or awful happens in a dream and you wake up and think, awesome, and reach for a pen and paper.

I woke with sweat beading across my forehead and my hands balled into fists clutching the sheet over my eyes. The dreams. They were back. Haunting me relentlessly. I thought they were gone... I should've known better. (Rayne)

I want to wake up!" a young woman shouted to the classroom ceiling. With her wide-set eyes and freckles, she looked like a nice person. Then a knobby-boned creature advanced on her. But she couldn't wake. And she likely wouldn't ever again.

I woke myself in the darkness, and I knew only that a dream had scared me so badly that I had to wake up or die, and yet, try as I might, I could not remember what I had dreamed. The dream was haunting me: standing behind me, present and yet invisible, like the back of my head, simultaneously there and not there.

I wish this were just a nightmare that we could wake up from.

I wonder sometimes if the thoughts that flock my nightmares are abandoned memories coming home to roost.

Maldonado's face was ghastly. 'That' she said, pointing below the bed where the cat lurked, 'and that' - pointing to what lay on the floor - 'prove it was no dream. Do dreams leave marks behind them?' ("I'm Dangerous Tonight")

Maia screamed and woke. 'Serenity?' Cala's voice, Cala's angular shape outlined against the window. ' 'Tis an ironic title, in sooth,' Maia said feebly, realizing that the entangling garments of the nightmare were merely his bedsheets. His heart was hammering, and he was clammy with sweat.

Man, a gigantic child, must play with Babylon and Nineveh, with Isis and with Ashtaroth. By all means let him dream of the Bondage of Egypt, so long as he is free from it. By all means let him take up the Burden of Tyre, so long as he can take it lightly. But the old gods must be his dolls, not his idols. His central sanctities, his true possessions, should be Christian and simple. And just as a child would cherish most a wooden horse or a sword that is a mere cross of wood, so man, the great child, must cherish most the old plain things of poetry and piety; that horse of wood that was the epic end of Ilium, or that cross of wood that redeemed and conquered the world.

Man may behold what ugliness he likes if he is sure that he will not worship it; but there are some so weak that they will worship a thing only because it is ugly. These must be chained to the beautiful. It is not always wrong even to go, like Dante, to the brink of the lowest promontory and look down at hell. It is when you look up at hell that a serious miscalculation has probably been made.

Men were snoring, twitching and whimpering, struggling with nightmares less terrible than reality.

Marry your dreams, divorce your nightmares.

Mom used to tell us stories of these bogeymen when we were kids, and Lizzy would crawl into my bed so she could fall asleep. Stories of the monsters who forced us underground, and when the force field faltered, would snatch us from our homes.

Mi sa che ti hanno mentito, se ti hanno detto che gli incubi non sono veri.

Most nightmares are caged in their realm by implausibilities. The sleeper slogs through quicksand in a fun house of frightening nonsense and disjointed mumbo jumbo. But everything’s all better once the bedside lamp is back on, because reality, even when it’s bad, is easily distinguished from night terror. Except for the trying-to-scream dream. That one’s pretty much spot-on.

Most of my stories originate in nightmares. For others, I start out as I do often to write poetry, meaning I flip through a thesaurus, point at one word with my eyes closed, write that down, repeat the process—and the writing finger having written moves on. This Symbiotic Fascination started this way… first there was the ugly little man. My long poem ‘Taunting the Minotaur’ began in my head with one sentence- “How do I stop the bleeding”? I do outline some novels but always end up changing them.

Most of the days, I am gripped by these visions, Memories! that haunt my present, What is it, That Separates me from You ? What is it, That cam bring me close ? All through the night, i seek such things, All through the night, i lose Myself .

My Manager forced me to put my beetle in my own ear, a clear waste and an act that gave me nightmares: of a burning city through which giant carnivorous lizards prowled, eating survivors off of balconies. In one particularly vivid moment, I stood on a ledge as the jaws closed in, heat-swept, and tinged with the smell of rotting flesh. Beetles intended for the tough, tight minds of children should not be used by adults. We still remember a kinder, gentler world.

…my books are derived from city images, and the city of my dreams or nightmares is Mexico City. (The Art of Fiction, No. 68. The Paris Review, No. 82, Winter 1981.)

My bed is massive (I drown in it, and it doesn’t matter how big the bed is, my nightmares more than fill it)

Never are we as honest as at night, alone with thoughts and nightmares.

My pillow is as good as any ocean to drown in the nightmare of myself. I swam all the way here from the moon.

No!" I wrestled with the covers as tears fell unchecked down my cheeks. The night terror had seemed all too real. The stinging slap echoed on my skin and I pressed a palm to my tender face. annoyed at my weakness I bundled myself in blankets and padded barefoot to the deck.

Nightmares always recur, but never our most beautiful dreams.

Night is my time...am not a vampire but i am a Night Rider....!

Night is when fear comes to us at its fullest, when we have no way to fight it. It will do everything it can to seep inside you. Sometimes it may succeed - but never think that you are the night.

Nightmares and secrets. Ewan wished he knew what had happened to these girls before he found them.

Nightmares come in many forms when you’re a cop.

Nightmares have a dreadful effect of captivating our minds during the waking hours. Nevertheless, they are merely fiction.

No matter how terrible my dreams, I'm always happy when I wake up.

No matter how much you cry, the tears will dry. No matter how many nightmares, flashbacks, visions, or terrors you endure, they will pass. To weather these in order to find your true self and the happiness you deserve, that is not a risk. To waste the time you have in this body, never showing your soul to yourself or anyone else, living in fearful misery – that is really the most dangerous thing you can do.

One awakens refreshed from every nightmare.

Now in sober truth there is a magnificent idea in these monsters of the Apocalypse. It is, I suppose, the idea that beings really more beautiful or more universal than we are might appear to us frightful and even confused. Especially they might seem to have senses at once more multiplex and more staring; an idea very imaginatively seized in the multitude of eyes. I like those monsters beneath the throne very much. But I like them beneath the throne. It is when one of them goes wandering in deserts and finds a throne for himself that evil faiths begin, and there is (literally) the devil to pay--to pay in dancing girls or human sacrifice. As long as those misshapen elemental powers are around the throne, remember that the thing that they worship is the likeness of the appearance of a man.

One dream, will suffice a thousand nightmares.

One major factor that will prevent your dreams from becoming nightmares is learning to vacate your spectators’ seat and then taking steps towards the players' bench! You've got to play to win!

One of life's greatest blessings, Lita had once realized, goes completely unnoticed until it's gone. It is forgetting. Forgetting a terrible memory so completely that you forget there was anything to forget in the first place. It's just gone. Vanished. That is, until it comes back. And the memories always come back, one way or another, but most especially in dreams.

One of the critical factors that make people’s dreams become nightmares is that they don’t know there is a cost to be paid!

Plans never go as planned, ever; that’s just how life is. People spend way too much time dreaming about a future they should be having more nightmares warning them against. But that doesn't mean you should let those bad dreams scare you away; all those nightmares want is respect. If you give them that, they’ll give you the space you need. Unless, of course, they’re the type of nightmares that have an appetite, then you’re fucked.

Pausing on the threshold, he looked in, conscious not so much of the few familiar sticks of furniture - the trucklebed, the worn strip of Brussels carpet, the chipped blue-banded ewer and basin, the framed illuminated texts on the walls - as of a perfect hive of abhorrent memories. That high cupboard in the corner, from which certain bodiless shapes had been wont to issue and stoop at him cowering out of his dreams; the crab-patterned paper that came alive as you stared; the window cold with menacing stars; the mouseholes, the rusty grate - trumpet of every wind that blows - these objects at once lustily shouted at him in their own original tongues. ("Out Of The Deep")

She yanked up the veil from Sarah’s burka to catch her breath in the night’s thick air. Frantic, Zoe snatched her cell phone from the bedside table. The touchscreen’s dim light painted her frightened silhouette on the bedroom wall.

real life nightmares kills me as an old man trying to escape from bad guilty memories who basically lives in the present.

Red light flickered behind her closed eyelids, and when she opened them, she discovered that they were surrounded by flames. Let it burn.... His sleek brow wrinkled, and he shook his head. Poor man looked conflicted, which was an interesting expression on a nightmare. "Your city is on fire." She smiled languidly. "Ain't it grand?

Shortly before five o’clock, Mayor Thorin woke from a terrible dream. In it, a bird with pink eyes had been cruising slowly back and forth above the Barony. Wherever its shadow fell, the grass turned yellow, the leaves fell shocked from the trees, and the crops died. The shadow was turning his green and pleasant Barony into a waste land. It may be my Barony, but it’s my bird, too, he thought just before awakening, huddled into a shuddery ball on one side of his bed. My bird, I brought it here, I let it out of its cage.