Quotes About Emotions

Does the hatred you feel ever disappear? Or is it something that never goes away... No matter how many times you try to erase it? What I have always feared the most... Is myself. Because I, too, have hatred inside me.

It's impossible for humans to forget their emotions. — Wolfgang Grimmer

Who wants that? I'd rather choose to fall in love and be hurt. Sometimes I can't even sleep because I love someone too much. And there's always sadness in our lives. It's that sad feeling that keeps us going. - Usagi/Sailor Moon

We have lots of ups and downs, pleasures and pains, but that's life and we learn to accept the bad with the good. Without the bad times, we wouldn't appreciate the good times.

It is a terrible, wretched thing to love someone whom you know cannot love you. There are things that are more dreadful. There are many human pains more grievous. And yet it remains both terrible and wretched. Like so many things, it is insoluble.

You can't be the one that hurts and the one that comforts.

At first we did not speak our hurt because it was not manly. Now we do not speak it because we are afraid and ashamed and alone without hope, each of us alone. It is hard to know when the first became the second.

All'inizio non abbiamo parlato a cuore aperto perché non era virile. Adesso non parliamo perché abbiamo paura, ci vergogniamo, e ci sentiamo disperati, ognuno nella propria solitudine. E' difficile sapere quando siamo passati dalla prima fase alla seconda.

He could not hope to discover, let alone understand, what thoughts moved her as she sat holding his hand to her cheek. He was alone, in the smallness of the room, in the space within him. And yet they were both together, alone. He understood, as if the knowledge had been waiting for him in this windowless chamber. That was, at bottom, what it amounted to. To be alone, together.

And there was a throbbing in my head, a kind of pressure from the inside, and I found that I was shouting. I can't remember everything I said. I know it wasn't all about egg sandwiches. I remember that I said, "It's no wonder that I hate you so much, because you never listen!" I remember that I said, "I wish I were dead like my mother!

I was four years old when my mother died. It's young enough that I might never think of her. Old enough that the knowledge would always be with me. And I don't. And it is.

All beauty touches the human heart, be it only so small as an ant or a spider.

the answer had been the politely evasive "Families can be very complicated." Indeed they can.

a kind of wonder at the secret chamber at the center of every human heart whose contents are unguessable from the outside.

Anger is a manifestation of a deeper issue... and that, for me, is based on insecurity, self-esteem and loneliness.

The third prescription had even less effect in lifting my depression than the first two and had done nothing but increase my anger and feeling of hopelessness.

And I wasn't old enough to be wise, so I loved her more, not less, because I knew she would be taken from me soon.

I don't want more sense!" I said loudly, beating against the silence of the room. "Not if sense means I'll stop loving anyone. What is there besides people that's worth holding on to?

But she hadn't been able to take root. She'd remembered the wrong things, and forgotten too much. She'd remembered how to kill and how to hate, and she'd forgotten how to grow.

He wrote such profound thoughts in such a deceptively simple way. Right off the bat, first paragraph, he tells you life is hard, that there are no simple answers, and that we should all stop moaning about it and get on with it. Love, he wrote, was action, not emotion.

Because sometimes I live in a hurricane of words and not one of them can save me.

I'm like the weather, never really can predict when this rain cloud's gonna burst; when it's the high or it's the low, when you might need a light jacket. Sometimes I'm the slush that sticks to the bottom of your work pants, but I can easily be the melting snowflakes clinging to your long lashes. I know that some people like: sunny and seventy-five, sunny and seventy-five, sunny and seventy-five, but you take me as I am and never forget to pack an umbrella.

I'm writing mostly to thank you for living you eighty years and to tell you I love you and think of you often.

Real love is painful. It's messy and chaotic and gut-wrenching. If it doesn't hurt, you're doing it wrong.