Quotes About Sorrow

Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.

Sometimes, when you're really depressed, all you want to do is nothing. All you want to do is lean your head on your arm, and stare into space. Sometimes this can go on for hours. If you're unusually depressed, you may have to change arms.

There's nothing like unrequited love to take all the flavor out of a peanut butter sandwich.

I'm sorry I ever thought about eating you.

I've been asking the Lord to forgive me for the things in my past that brought this upon all of you. I have asked before, and I will ask again, please forgive me.

She blazed, burned herself out, and then disappeared into the silent deep, sounding the echoes of remembrance throughout a hollow and shattered heart.

But repentance isn't supposed to feel good. In fact, if it does, you're probably doing it wrong.

I would give almost anything I have to reverse the course of my life in the last three years…. I have deceived my friends, and I had millions of them.

Go, forget me - why should sorrow, O'er that brow a shadow fling? Go, forget me - and tomorrow, brightly smile and sweetly sing. Smile - though I shall not be near thee Sing - though I shall never hear thee.

What we are given in dreams we write as blue paint, Or messages to the clouds. At evening we wait for the rain to fall and the sky to clear. Our words are words for the clay, uttered in undertones, Our gestures salve for the wind. We sit out on the earth and stretch our limbs, Hoarding the little mounds of sorrow laid up in our hearts. —Charles Wright, closing lines to "Homage to Paul Cézanne," The Southern Cross: Poems (Random House, 1981)

Is language all about desire? Is desire all about loss? Would we ever need to say anything if we never lost anything? Is everything we ever say just another way to express: I will lose this, I will lose all of this. I will lose you?

Love from the abandoned heart of a nonexistent dog.

And then it was like he had been punched hard in the chest. He wasn't running anymore. He looked down. there was a silver bolt sticking out of him.no, that couldn't be. He couldn't have shot himself. He tried to augh, but it hurt to much. What was gong on? He had fallen. He was sitting down, his legs out in front of him. dead grown-ups lay all around him. Nothing moved. he couldn't breathe. His lungs were full of liquid. He looked up. The sky was flickering.

Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agised as in that hour left my lips: for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love.

Remorse is the poison of life.

There was a start of extreme joy, such as she had known twice before, but it could be only for a moment while he looked so wretchedly unwell. It did but give her the right to attend to him. The first thing she said was to beg him to lie down on the sofa; her only care was to make him comfortable with cushions,

I cry at nothing, and cry most of the time. Of course I don't when John is here, or anybody else, but when I am alone.

That sound . . . that sound, it came from his mouth. It was the song of something dying. Something that never did live.

My whole life sort of ended when my mom died.

Accept that this experience taught you something you didn't want to know. Accept that sorrow and strife are part of even a joyful life. Accept that it's going to take a long time for you to get that monster out of your chest. Accept that someday what pains you now will surely pain you less.

When you recognize that you will thrive not in spite of your losses and sorrows, but because of them, that you would not have chosen the things that happened in your life, but you are grateful for them, that you will hold the empty bowls eternally in your hands, but you also have the capacity to fill them? THE WORD FOR THAT IS HEALING.

The most fascinating thing to me about your letter is that buried beneath all the anxiety and sorrow and fear and self-loathing, there's arrogance at its core. It presumes you should be successful at twenty-six, when really it takes most writers much longer to get there.

It was the thing that had grown in me that I'd remember years later, when my life became unmoored by sorrow. The thing that would make me believe that hiking the Pacific Crest Trail was my way back to the person I used to be. On

hen you recognize that you will thrive not in spite of your losses and sorrows, but because of them, that you would not have chosen the things that happened in your life, but you are grateful for them, that you will hold the empty bowls eternally in your hands, but you also have the capacity to fill them? The word for that is healing.