Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.
You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
The good times of today are the sad thoughts of tomorrow.
Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.
I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying.
My heart is so tired.
The scariest thing about distance is that you don’t know whether they’ll miss you or forget you.
Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people.
Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.
The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.
Happiness for a reason is just another form of misery because the reason can be taken away from us at any time.
O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
The more you try to avoid suffering, the more you suffer, because smaller and more insignificant things begin to torture you, in proportion to your fear of being hurt. The one who does most to avoid suffering is, in the end, the one who suffers most.
Sadness is but a wall between two gardens.
The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line, Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.
All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.