Quotes About Emotions

There were some feelings that just didn't have words big enough to describe them.

We sit for a few more moments, although there's really nothing left to say. This is new to me, too, an entire conversation that takes place in silence, because the heart has its own language. I will remember what Eric says even though he doesn't say a word. I will tell it to her.

For the first time in my life I begin to understand how a parent might hit a child ..it's because you can look into their eyes and see a reflection of yourself that you wish you hadn't.

She'd been in labor for nineteen hours; I completely understood why she wanted to pass the buck. 'You are so beautiful,' her husband crooned, holding up her shoulders. 'You are so full of shit,' Lila snarled, but as a contraction settled over her like a net, she bore down and pushed.

How do you do it? Do what? All of it. You know. Go to class and practice. Make it through the day. Act like ... like none if it mattered. Jason swore beneath his breath and pulled the car over. Then he reached across the seat and brushed his thumb over her cheek; until then, she hadn't been aware she was crying. Trix, he sighed, it mattered.

How can you ricochet from a moment where you are on top of the world to one where you are crawling at rock bottom

There are just some feelings, I've learned, for which we never invented the right words.

I remember everything Campbell, she interrupts. If I didn't, this wouldn't be so hard.

In the real world, you can't just turn a page and feel better.

I smile. But like anything you wear that doesn't fit, it pinches.

A heart with so many stress fractures would never be anything but broken.

I didn't want to invade his privacy; I didn't want to fight with him; I didn't want anyone else to ever hurt him. I just wanted him to be a child forever." She glanced up, crying harder now. "But you can't do that, if you're a parent. Because part of your job is letting them grow up.

She had tried to hide the discomfort behind the mask of competence that she usually wore, only to realize that in her hurry, she must have left it behind somewhere.

Don't say it. Don't say nobody's going to stare at me, because they will. Don't tell me it doesn't matter because it does. And don't tell me I look fine because that's a lie. I'm a freak, Mom. Look at me.

I love feeling loved. I don't love knowing that I will always come in second place. I love the fact that at least sometimes when I am in my home, I'm not alone. I don't love the fact that it's not always. I love not having to answer to him. I don't love that he doesn't answer to me. I love the way I feel when I am with him. I don't love the way I feel when I'm not.

I look at you and I see this amazing, beautiful thing. All these books and songs are written about people looking for the love of their life and never fining it, and we've got it and it isn't worth a damn to you.

Because that's what stories do. They help you escape, and they give you the chance to do things you never imagined you would or could. They let you feel heartbreak you've never had and experience adventures from the safety of your own room. They are dreams for those who are still awake. They

It turns out that there's something even harder than not being able to be with the person you love when you're happy: not being able to comfort her when she's sad.

Over her shoulder was Josie-and for the first time, Alex could really see a piece of herself in her daughter. It wasn't so much the shape of the face but the shine of it; not the color of the eyes but the dream caught like smoke in them. There was no amount of expensive makeup that would make her look the way her Josie did; that was simply what falling in love did to a person. Could you be jealous of your own child?

Marina sighs. "Love is like a tidal wave," she says. "Because it sweeps you off your feet?" I ask. "No, because it sucks you under and you drown." "But sometimes," I point out, "it's the only thing that keeps you afloat.

It is a curious thing, watching a strong man fall to pieces.

Happiness was relative

She lashed out because when you hurt someone else, you're less likely to feel your own pain.

At seventeen, the smallest crises took on tremendous proportions; someone else's thoughts could take root in the loam of your own mind; having someone accept you was as vital as oxygen.