Quotes About Emotions

The funny thing is, the more you know, the more passionate you feel about life, and the more joy you feel, and the more inspired you feel, but then also the more disgusted you are with humanity [...] [this is] the paradox of life.

I get strength from my art - all the paintings I own are powerful.

Love is like a booger, you pick and pick at it. Then when you get it you wonder how to get rid of it.

I look placid, you see, that's why people think I'm fine. Inside I worry a lot.

She put her head down on the table and cried all the tears that she knew she should have cried in the past year and a half. But they weren't ready then, they were now.

It was so silly to try to define things by words. What did one person mean by infatuation or obsession and another mean by love. The whole thing couldn't be tidied away with neat little labels." - Lena Gray

Wasn't it hard that you did so much for children and loved them so deeply and they seemed so indifferent to you in return?

We are real only in moments of kindness.

Love isn't a straight line. It's a roller coaster ride.

There's a thin line between love and hate, and it's easy to cross.

In gloomy moments, I think we are allowed to stay alive here but not to live, much less to enjoy ourselves or take pleasure in what we see when we look out of our windows or walk around our streets. If we have the fortitude to get up out of bed in the morning and get going to face the day, we should also have the freedom to rejoice, and I think the freedom to rejoice is being denied us when our senses are dulled at every turn by streets that are inimical when they are not simply sad.

Dr. Kübler-Ross expanded on this theme in her 1961 book, On Death and Dying

The faerie queen's compassion was even more frightening than her anger.

What I know: when I met you, a blue rush began. I want you to know, I no longer hold you responsible.

The freedom to be happy restricts human freedom if you are not free to be not happy.

At times I fake my enthusiasm. At others, I fear I am incapable of communicating the depth of it.

95. But please don't write again to tell me how you have woken up weeping. I already know how you are in love with your weeping.

I have been trying, for some time now, to find dignity in my loneliness. I have been finding this hard to do. It is easier, of course, to find dignity in one's solitude. Loneliness is solitude with a problem. Can blue solve the problem, or can it at least keep me company within it? No, not exactly. It cannot love me that way; it has no arms. But sometimes I do feel its presence to be a sort of wink-- Here you are again, it says, and so am I.

92. Eventually I confess to a friend some details about my weeping—its intensity, its frequency. She says (kindly) that she thinks we sometimes weep in front of a mirror not to inflame self-pity, but because we want to feel witnessed in our despair.

I think you overestimate the maturity of adults, he wrote me in his final letter, a letter he sent only after I'd broken down and written him first, after a year of silence.

This is the dysfunction talking. This is the disease talking. This is how much I miss you talking. This is the deepest blue, talking, talking, always talking to you.

I don't ever want to make the mistake of needing him as much as or more than he needs me. But there's no denying that sometimes, when we sleep together in the dark cavern of the bottom bunk, his big brother thrashing around on top, the white noise machine grinding out its fake rain, the green digital clock announcing every hour, Iggy's small body holds mine.

One problem with lyrical waxing, as Snediker has it, is that it often signals (or occasions) an infatuation with overarching concepts or figures that can run roughshod over the specificities of the situation at hand.

I suppose it is possible that one day we will meet again and it will feel as if nothing ever happened between us.