Quotes About Loneliness

the suicidal smell of cigarettes

This is poetry. You're writing about Heaven's Gate and the Caribou Herd, but what comes across is loneliness, displacement, angst, and a cynical look at humanity.

Francis Crozier believes in nothing. Life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short. It has no plan, no point, no hidden mysteries that make up for the oh-so-obvious miseries and banalities. Nothing he has learned in the last six months has persuaded him otherwise. Has it?

For years I have carried on silent conversations with Siri, framing questions to myself for future discussion with her, and it suddenly strikes me with cold clarity that we will never again sit together and talk. An emptiness begins to grow inside me. Should

I could not forbear getting up to the top of a little mountain, and looking out to sea, in hopes of seeing a ship : then fancy that, at a vast distance, I spied a sail, please myself with the hopes of it, and, after looking steadily, till I was almost blind, lose it quite, and sit down and weep like a child, and thus increase my misery by my folly.

Un estudiante universitario observa la soledad y el aislamiento que acompañan al hecho de vivir en un mundo virtual de tuits, actualizaciones de perfil y "subir fotos de la cena".

Television, as the poet T. S. Eliot warned in 1963, when the then-new medium was spreading into homes, "permits millions of people to listen to the same joke at the same time, and yet remain lonesome.

On average, children are growing more lonely and depressed, more angry and unruly, more nervous and prone to worry, more impulsive and aggressive.

I don't smoke, although it looks fantastic in films. But I light matches on those thinking blank nights when I crawl my route out onto the roof of the garage and the sky while my parents sleep innocent and the lonely cars move sparse on the faraway streets, when the pillow won't stay cool and the blankets bother my body no matter how I move or lie still. I just sit with my legs dangling and light matches and watch them flicker away.

Here we are at the bottom, almost empty. It's like confetti, these dried remnants you find in the street for a party no one invited you to. But they used to be, I can admit, part of something beautiful.

Weekends and weekdays, when you knew I was looking and when you didn't even guess I was alive. Even with shiny stars bothering your head it was beautiful.

Rain, the grade school teachers say, makes the trees and flowers grow, but we're not trees and flowers, and so many grade school teachers are single.

I'm alone. There's a poem in that, but I don't want to write it. I don't want to be someone who spends Saturday night alone at home, writing poems about being alone.

I thought it was one thing but it was the other, it was zero zero zero alone on the bus while you slept in the room I had to leave, and that's why we broke up.

I talk shit about everybody and then sulk when they don't call me, my friends fall away like I've dropped them out of an airplane, my ex-boyfriend thinks I'm Hitler when he sees me.

But more often the woman was alone and would walk around naked for some reason, neither beautiful enough nor ugly enough to make sense.

The universe was exploding, each particle away from the next, hurtling us into dark and lonely space, eternally tearing us away from each other - child out of the womb, friend away from friend, moving from each other, each through his own pathway towards the goal-box of solitary death.

What has happened to me? Why am I so alone in the world?

Me, a nothingness zombie in a nothingness box in a nothingness hell.

For one moment I had a cold feeling he was watching. Over the arm of the couch, I caught a glimpse of his face staring back at me through the dark beyond the window - where just a few minutes earlier I had been crouching. A switch of perception, and I was out on the fire escape again, watching a man and a woman inside, making love on the couch. ... I thought to myself, go ahead, you poor bastard - watch. I don't give a damn anymore.

The universe was exploding, each particle away from the next, hurtling us into dark and lonely space, eternally tearing us away from each other—child out of the womb, friend away from friend, moving from each other, each through his own pathway toward the goal-box of solitary death.

O universo explodia, cada partícula distante da outra, lançando-nos violentamente para o espaço escuro e solitário, eternamente nos separando um do outro – criança para fora do útero, amigo longe de amigo, mudando-se para lugares distantes, cada um com seu próprio caminho rumo à caixa de recompensas da morte solitária.

O problema real é que não há lugar pra ninguém em lugar algum

I don't think there's any loneliness greater than the loneliness to be found in a bad marriage. In solitary confinement, everyone knows you're lonely and feels sorry for you. In a bad marriage loneliness is your darkest secret, one you dare not even share with your spouse.