Quotes About Loneliness

It's lonely at midnight in the nuthouse.

To tell the truth days are all the same size and words aren't much company.

Ever feel like God is a million miles away? The truth is, he's not. Whatever struggle you're going through, you can rest assured you're not alone. You have God in your corner.

Truth has very few friends and those few are suicides.

The smallest atom of truth represents some man's bitter toil and agony; for every ponderable chunk of it there is a brave truth-seeker's grave upon some lonely ash-dump and a soul roasting in hell.

The truth is, when it gets really quiet, when the silence gets too loud, i really start to miss everyone.

I felt lonely and content at the same time. I believe that is a rare kind of happiness.

He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear.

Novelty is a new kind of loneliness.

...but the truth is that I don't feel like I can carry anyone but myself right now. The streets are empty. I am empty. Or, no--I am full of pain. It's my life that's empty.

Sorrow is not in death but in loneliness, and conflict comes when you seek consolation, forgetfullness, explanations, and illusions.

To be closed from everything, and yet to feel, to think...This is the truth of hell, stripped of its gaudy medievalisms. This loss of contact.

...I've returned and I look around me and think, I've missed my life. While I was off and alone, it went on here, without me, and I'm forever doomed to be a stranger in my own home.

Don't make fun of me!" Ender said. "I'm afraid I'm going crazy.

It's so hard, " Andy said. "When you don't have anyone.""Yeah, I know, " Gerri agreed. "Yet it's harder when you have the wrong one.

Be kind to humanity, she is very lonely, everyone is busy with themselves.

Lying is easy. But it's lonely.""What do you mean?""When you lie to everyone about everything, what's left? What's true?""Nothing, " I say."Exactly.

What's even more messed up than funerals, is the way people treat you after the funeral. Like you're diseased or something.

For your brain is alone now your passion goes, And your coloured dreams run cold And there's nothing left but a gaping skull On the spine of the wounded world. But we are well! O sailor! sailor! O we are very well! Do not tremble as you stand, O frightened sailor For death is so mean and small. It snatches away the burning breath And it snatches the useless clay But what can it do to halt the square-rigged Soul as it steers away?

The night was warm and there was no cause to shudder save that a twinge of joy, of dark joy can shake the body, when a man is alone, under the moon, on a secret mission, with hunger in his heart and ice in his brain.

Then it all crashes down And you break your crown And you point your finger But there's no one around

No one is sexy at three am

It drains the bars and cafes after hours, concentrates the wicked and the guilty along its chipped Formica counter, and thrums with the gossip of criminals, policemen, shtarkers,and schlemiels, whores and night owls ... three or four floaters, solitaries, and drunks between benders lean against the sparkly resin counter, sucking the tea from their shtekelehs and working the calulations of their next big mistake.

The midnight disease is a kind of emotional insomnia; at ever conscious moment its victim—even if he or she writes at dawn, or in the middle of the afternoon—feels like a person lying in a sweltering bedroom, with the window thrown open, looking up at a sky filled with stars and airplanes, listening to the narrative of a rattling blind, an ambulance, a fly trapped in a Coke bottle, while all around him the neighbours soundly sleep.