Quotes About Isolation

It didn't matter that I sat alone at lunchtimes and rarely got invited to parties. My fictional friends were just as real, and when I closed a book at night I knew they would still be there in the morning

He called and asked where she was and she said, "I decided to just come home tonight." "Why?" "Because there was no one to talk to at the bar," she said. "But I'm here." "Exactly," she said. And then she said goodbye. Of

Being a survivor didn't just mean being strong. It meant being lonely. Honestly, truly lonely. Knowing things other people weren't supposed to know. Carrying memories I was desperate to forget and yet still couldn't blank out of my head.

even further, and I shivered inside my wool coat as I trudged back to my car, two grocery bags in hand. I wanted to go home, but I still had the crushed vials. Where could you dispose of broken glass and no one would notice?

Not to mention there are at least seven locks between you and the outside world. First lock is on your cell door. Get by

had worked to get to the driver, who, pinned in her seat, was hanging upside down, seat belt still in place, her body as broken and twisted as the car. Alvarez had looked into the body bag and felt her insides go cold. Questions that had haunted her about the victim for the past few days now pounded through her brain: Why had she left in the middle of the night?

Your a lying bastard who only cares about his own damned hide, so just leave me the hell alone! ~ Eve

she was only here because she didn't have the guts to be anywhere else. Because she felt like the last guest at an unsuccessful party, too guilt-ridden to leave.

So here I am, alone." "You're not alone." "When you're facing death, you're alone." I grab Jenna by the shoulders. "Here's a news flash for you. We all face death. We all walk alone. The only difference is most of us don't know how close we are to it until it's too late.

Suddenly, someone who was at the center of your life is gone, excised as quickly as an apple is cored, a sharp spike driven down the center of your world, then a cruel flick of the wrist and the almost surgical extraction of your very heart.

All the time, I looked out our lattice window. I watched the birds fly by. I followed the clouds on their travels. I studied the moon as it grew larger, then shrank. So much happened outside my window that I almost forgot what was happening inside that room.

of thought—months, alone, of thought.

I didn't understand depression, how it was a con and a thief of joy. How it lured people away, making them believe that the world was better off without them.

I couldn't leave there  without carrying some of her sadness and loneliness with me like a cloak. There was a smell that I've come to think of as life rot. Where a life has spoiled, gone bad through lack of use.

there is nothing certain in life but death. We may labour under the delusion that we know what the day ahead of us holds, what the hour holds. But we do not. We may think our death, our very certain death, is something distant and remote, an island we might never visit. But for some of us, its right here, waiting.

She told me I didn't understand depression, how it was a con and a thief of joy. How it lured people away, making them believe that the world was better off without them.

But that was the world now, everyone in their little silo, broadcasting versions of their lives from a screen, onto the screens of others.

It was a secret space, a place apart from the world where all time stood still.

It's rare that someone doesn't have a device clutched in his hand, isn't staring at a screen all the time, relationships scrolling out in bubbles, text disembodied from voice and body, language pared down to barest meaning and, so, far less meaningful than actual conversation. How did we let them do it, separate us from each other while making us seem more connected than ever? How did we let them strip voice and touch and tone from our interactions?

The truth is that we're all essentially alone. The lucky ones have a crew to share the load from birth to death. But in the end, we go as we came—a single entity, just passing through. But that's not a thing people like to hear. The story of being surrounded and supported and loved, being a part of something, the whole, almost sacred notion that family is everything is sold hard, and bought completely.

He was homeless in the truest sense, within.

Cricket felt that her spiritual home might be Neiman Marcus. She was far from the kind of place that made her feel comfortable—someplace gleaming and clean with lovely, expensive goods for sale. People were so into "nature," weren't they? Getting into it, back to it. Why? Nature just seemed spooky and unsafe to Cricket. There was that whole no-one-can-hear-you-screaming vibe. They hadn't seen another car for ages. Ages.

She watched. That was her gift. To disappear into the black, sink into the shadows behind and between. That's where you really saw things for what they were, when people revealed their true natures, Everyone was on broadcast these days, thrusting out versions of themselves, cropped and filtered for public consumption. Everyone putting on the show of me. It was when people were alone, unobserved, that the mask came off

And I'd figured out that no one cared, not really. No one gave a shit about anything but himself. People were addled by their own chatter, their own personal litany of fears and insecurities, self-loathing, and selfish desires. Hardly anyone could hear over that. I was invisible if I wanted to be.