Quotes About Suffocation

Drowning in the sea of love Where everyone would love to drown.

I'm oxygen and he's dying to breathe.

I had been wading up to my neck in all this niceness for years. I woke up to it, went to sleep in it. I breathed niceness and slowly it was killing me.

He felt full of a dense and sour substance that was blocking his chest, and it wasn't grief. After all those years, life now seemed like no more than a trap, a maze, not even a maze, just a room that was all walls, no door.

Once again, I had made my world a very small place, and I didn't want to live there.

he needed the woods. When he was away from these trees for too long, he felt as though he was suffocating, as though his lungs were ready to completely shut down.

The slugs are ascending this steep city staircase that leads up to a huge Catholic church, essentially signifying their slow crawl towards death. The work reminds us of religion, mortality, natural decay, and the slow suffocation of commercialized societies.

The only interesting thing that can happen in a Swiss bedroom is suffocation by feather mattress.

Into the cities my people had gathered. They had become dizzy with words. Words had choked them. They could not breathe.

But how do you find the right people-how do you love without smothering them? How do you not suffocate them with all the love you've built up in their absence?

Ultimately, too much dependency on a person can kill love. Relationships based on emotional insecurity and need, rather than on love, can become self-destructive. They don't work. Too much need drives people away and smothers love. It scares people away.

The world can see what goes on in the tombs of America as Black people are being slowly strangled and suffocated to death. . . .

There was no air; only the dead, still night fired by the dog days of August. Not a breath. I had to suck in the same air I exhaled, cupping it in my hands before it escaped. I felt it, in and out, less each time…until it was so thin it slipped through my fingers forever. I mean, forever.

You are a brick tied to me that's dragging me down. Strike a match and I'll burn you to the ground.

This time he was underwater, running, feet sinking deeper and deeper into the seabed. The surface was within reach if he raised his arms, but he couldn't get his head out of the water. He had to breathe. The compulsion to inhale was huge. But he couldn't, musn't. Still he ran, getting nowhere, each frantic step burying his feet in the wet sand until he was no longer able to lift them. Finally, with one great gulp, he opened his mouth, his lungs to the flood of seawater.

I feel like I'm holding my breath all the time, never knowing when my lungs will just give up. The air we're supposed to breathe is up above – I can feel it.

She's got us, she's got us all. Caverna. She doesn't want to let us go. Do you know what she's like? A huge trap-lantern with us inside her, digesting us really, really slowly, and not wanting to let any of us go. Maybe that's the worst kind of prison – not knowing you're in a prison. Because then you don't fight to get out.

It was while he was lost in that thought that Granite Man punched him deep in the stomach. The fist followed through to the point where it seemed the knuckles must have reached the fabric of the couch. Myron snapped closed at the waist. He dropped to the floor, struggled to regain a breath, suffocating from within. He lowered his head to his knees, consumed with one thought: air. He needed air. Susan

It's hard to breathe, and I close my eyes. There's a hard lump of air in my chest, like I've swallowed a raincloud whole.

What we call the Protestant Ethic, the use of worldly loss and gain to symbolize heavenly standing, appears in Walden as some last suffocation of the soul. America and its Christianity have become perfect, dreamlike liberalizations or parodies of themselves.

There are many kinds of loneliness, but Momo experienced one that only very few people know of, and that even fewer have experienced to the extent that Momo did. She felt like she was imprisoned in a treasure trove filled with priceless riches that continued to grow in number, threatening to suffocate her.

Anxiety is love's greatest killer, because it is like the stranglehold of the drowning.

There he found his two youngest daughters unconscious. Wet, cold, and mesmerized with terror, the other members of the family had forgotten about the two girls and were actually sitting on them—they had nearly suffocated.

The bell jar hung, suspended, a few feet above my head. I was open to the circulating air.