Best 10157 quotes in «pain quotes» category

Sembrava passata un'eternità, un'eternità che sembrava breve ma allo stesso tempo infinita. Alcuni infiniti sono più grandi di altri infiniti.

Semoga di 2017 jenis Php semakin bisa diidentifikasi, sehingga mblo mblo indonesia semakin waspada dan lebih berhati-hati

Semoga di 2017 orang2 semakin sadar bahwa penyiar berita lebih perhatian ngucapin "selamat pagi" ketimbang gebetan yg sering diculik UFO

Se non c’è più qualcosa in cui credere, allora non c’è più un motivo per restare.

SE Self Execution the act will always be greater than the pain.

Shadow crawled across the floor to the yellow foam-rubber pad and climbed onto it, pulling the thin blanket over himself, and closed his eyes, and he held onto nothing, and he held onto dreams.

Shared pain was not lessened, but it was far easier to bear.

Severe pain makes this weak body collapse, But it never breaks one soul. While this human flesh enters a grave, The soul ascends to thy Kingdom of thy Lord.

She asked him for nothing. She just accepted him with all his confusion and flaws. So, he took her pain and replaced it with love.

Shake hands with today; it is here already. Bid farewell to yesterday; it’s gone already. Never let yesterday’s pain rob you of today’s gains. Drive yourself positively!

Shaken by emotional storms, I realized that choosing to feel guilt, however painful, somehow seemed to offer reassurance that such events did not happen at random.... If guilt is the price we pay for the illusion that we have some control over nature, many of us are willing to pay it. I was. To begin to release the weight of guilt, I had to let go of whatever illusion of control it pretended to offer, and acknowledge that pain and death are as natural as birth, woven inseparably into our human nature.

She always had that about her, the sparkle in her eye, she was unshakeable and what made her so admirable was; her ability to shine bright when no one knew of her pain.

she awoke often to lie and wish for that presence beside her—inanimate yet breathing—still Jeff.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath for one last time and let his hand go. She saw his boat drifting away they both looked at each other and waved one last time before she could not see him anymore.

She closes her eyes, and I can see the moisture. She’s deep-breathing again, and I notice her hands are clutched around the opposing wrists, nails digging in deep, hard, scratching. Pain to replace pain.

She'd be dead before the memories and pain were finally gone; she knew it, accepted it, and dealt with it.

… she claimed it’s a sign of God’s mercy that He won’t let us remember the reddest details of pain. He knows the parts we can’t bear and won’t let our minds render them again. In time, from disuse, they pale away. At least such was her thinking. God lays the unbearable on you and then takes some back.

She closed her eyes and held all her dreams between her fingers like a dandelion and just blew it. She smiled watching it fly through the air, making everything look beautiful around her while a tear rolled down her cheek.

She could sense the fear and anxiety of babies and younger children upon meeting her for the first time; their wide eyed stares, fidgeting, and outright tantrums. Blaring like little homing beacons, they knew that Mallory wore a disguise to cover her wounds, and that they probably weren't safe. They were so very innocent and unblemished from the world, and saw straight through to her heart.  It was the real reason she preferred not to be in their company or head a classroom full of tiny ones, though she often told those who questioned her preference for teaching teenagers that she didn't like small children.  Children hated pain. It was rare that they wouldn't shy away from an adult whose heart was laden with it.

She endures in times of hardship. She takes pain and fuels it to her creative advantage. She knows in order to achieve her greatest expression she must embrace her demons. That is the only true way to grow as a human being. She would rather struggle than be stagnant.

She’d felt more pain from Nico in their brief connection than she had from her entire legion during the battle against the giant Polybotes.

She'd expected some backlash; it happened every time she shared her strength. But she hadn't anticipated so much raw anguish from Nico di Angelo… If this was only a portion of Nico’s pain… how could he bear it?

She didn't know how to react to his non-sexualisation of her, and as she stared at his silent face, she recognized a familiar pain, a sense of not being there.

She found a dark satisfaction in pain—because that pain came from him.

She had come to analysis because she was, as she put it, “ruining her children.” ... “But you are so frustrating,” she said. “I want you to take something away from me, and you keep giving it back.” And what, I asked, was that “something” she wanted to give away? “The pain. The crazy,” she said. She said there was a little shrine, somewhere in the north of Brazil. The land was dry, the town impossibly poor, but people would travel for hundreds of miles to get there, to leave candles, gifts, and ex- voto offerings thanking the saint for answered prayers, for healing, for having rescued them from distress. “I bring you my worries. I bring you my tears. I bring you the dreams I have. I want to leave them here. I want to hang them on your wall and return home healed. But everything I give to you, you give back. You say, like you just said, ‘What is this “something” you want to give away?’ ” Years later I looked it up, the shrine. There were many like the one my Brazilian patient had described. One of them was a kind of cave or grotto, where pilgrims would leave little body parts carved from wood or wax: a foot, a breast, a head. From time to time the priest collected the wax objects and melted them down, making candles to be sold to other pilgrims. The walls and ceiling of the shrine were black with candle smoke and crowded with these suspended offerings. I think now that my Brazilian patient managed at least to give that away, the conjured image of a blackened shrine, hung with a jumble of body parts. I think that in the soul of each psychoanalyst such a place must exist, in spite of what we profess about our neutrality, our professional detachment. Perhaps something of what we receive can be melted down and sold back as candlelight— our costly illuminations— but other elements remain just as they appeared, the dreams nailed to the walls, the abandoned hearts and limbs, the soot of inextinguishable longing.

She had not had the relief of amnesia. She had suffered longer, and she had suffered more. Each second was agony in the first weeks. She was like an amputee in the days before anesthesia, half crazed with pain, astounded that the human body could feel so much and not die of it. But slowly, cell by painful cell, she began to mend. There came a time when it was no longer her whole body that burned with pain but only her heart. And then there came a time when even her heart was able, for a time at least, to feel other emotions besides grief.

She had too much imagination. Too much empathy [...] there was real pain in the world, right this very moment people were suffering unimaginable atrocities and you couldn't close your heart completely, but you couldn't leave it wide open either, because otherwise how could you possibly live your life, when through pure, random luck you got to live in paradise?

She had never looked as well. She had entered her room as just an impossibly lovely girl. The woman who emerged was a trifle thinner, a great deal wiser, an ocean sadder. This one understood the nature of pain, and beneath the glory of her features, there was character, and a sure knowledge of suffering.

She hadn’t felt any emotion until he touched her, but then she found herself blinking back the tears and forcing herself to say, “It’s okay.” And it was. In a way. She could hardly remember it, but the flashes that stayed with her through the years were painful.

She had thought she'd already reached her capacity for pain and had no room inside her for more. But she remembered having told Archer once that you could not measure love on a scale of degrees, and now she understood that it was the same with pain. Pain might escalate upwards, and, just when you'd thought you'd reached your limit, begin to spread sideways, and spill out, and touch other people, and mix with their pain. And grow larger, but somehow less oppressive. She had thought herself trapped in a place outside the ordinary feeling lives of other people; she had not noticed how many other people were trapped in that place with her.

She is his living mausoleum.

She is not with me,this grief is not bigger then this happiness that she is with her choice

She knew nothing of the massacre that went on around her, but when she released the wail of a broken hearted mother, one man heard her. The one who took her son's life.

She hoped that Tin Win would learn what she had learned over the years: that there are wounds time does not heal, though it can reduce them to a manageable size.

She imagined herself drowning along the tides of Sumendu Lake, down own into the depths of solemn solitude, splashing into the serenity of forever silence.

She knew those horrid words were addressed to her. They felt like the icy tip of an arrow meant to conjure up destruction, coming from the most venomous abyss imaginable, rammed right into her chest with the utmost authority, entitlement, and pleasure.

She knows the truth can cause a sharp pain behind your eyes and that love sometimes feels like a fist around your throat.

She has been surprised by grief, its constancy, its immediacy, its unrelenting physical pain.

she has heard somewhere that cigarettes are good for grief. One long drag and you forget how to cry. The body too busy dealing with the poison. No wonder they gave them out free to the soliders. Lucky Strikes.

She knew Paul D was adding something to her life—something she wanted to count on but was scared to... His waiting eyes and awful human power. The mind of him that knew her own. Her story was bearable because it was his as well—to tell, to refine and tell again. The things neither knew about the other—the things neither had word-shapes for—well, it would come in time.

She remembered Nana saying once that each snowflake was a sigh heaved by an aggrieved woman somewhere in the world. That all the sighs drifted up into the sky, gathered into clouds, then broke silently on the people below - As a reminder of how women like us suffer, she'd said. How quietly we endure all that falls upon us

She remembered sitting on the edge of a white-sheeted bed, the muscles in her arms drawn taut as she gripped the linen and tried to contain her screams of pain, her teeth feeling like they’d crack from being clenched so hard, watching the seconds slowly drip off the clock.

She sat there alone after getting drenched enough by rain. In the silence of the midnight, Each drop that fell made a sound that was loud enough to wake all the memories inside her one after the other, before she could know what was happening she was lost somewhere in the past where the pictures in mind pushed her into a state of chaotic happiness and a blissful pain.

She seemed dressed in all of me, stretched across my shame. All the torment and the pain leaked through and covered me. I'd do anything to have her to myself. Just to have her for myself Now I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do when she makes me sane. She is everything to me. The unrequited dream A song that no one sings. The unattainable, Shes a myth that I have to believe in All I need to make it real is one more reason I don't know what to do, I don't know what to do when she makes me sad.

She's hurt and still imagines I'd worry about him for even a second ? I touch her shoulder. Her touch her shoulder. Her dark hair brushes the back of my hand. Her dark eyes shine. Their brightness goes all the way down. "You found me," she says. I kneel beside her. I take her hand. "I found you". "My back is broken,"she says. "I can't walk." I slide my arms beneath her. "I'll carry you".

She sobbed the way she did everything else- with passion and excess.

She stares at it for several moments before taking it out from underneath the plastic film that covers it. Then she holds it with the affection of a mother for her new-born child, tender and loving; Preeti’s eyes soften briefly just for that moment. The lava of hurt makes way into her throat, setting ablaze all that she has held within. As memories meet sentience, the apartment echoes with her muffled cries. The photograph, a silent spectator, drenches in her grief as the tears start their descent.

She surveyed the undergrowth and focused on a cluster of fern fronds curled tightly against the new life they had been given. She often wondered why the fern’s new existence was so firmly wound up. But she questioned their response no longer. Oaklee felt every muscle in her body want to curl up in self-protection, to comfort the pain, anger, and fear.

She survived it. She was able to survive it, because she did not believe in suffering. She faced with astonished indignation the ugly fact of feeling pain, and refused to let it matter. Suffering was a senseless accident, it was not part of life as she saw it.

She started beating it against the walls and floor until it was nothing but pieces, nothing but a memory of a guitar. I had an idea, though not yet clear, that it wasn’t her arms that beat what once could sing, but her heavy heart, as she once said that even the Rock of Gibraltar had ten thousand holes.