Quotes About Loneliness

I have turned into a pumpkin I am poor The ball is over and I did not dance My heart stops beating I am sad Nothing can ever be so beautiful again Nothing can This is my usual corner I'm at home Here are the pots and spoons and darkness I did not dance and now I am alone My death drops down the chimney My heart stops

Maybe Larry was wrong about the word friend, maybe he'd been shoved away from everybody for so long all he was was a sponge for the wrongs other people did.

Their lives had stopped, frozen, as if in a picture, and the days were nothing more than empty squares on a calendar.

Maybe Larry was wrong about the word friend, maybe he'd been shoved away from everybody for so long all he was was a sponge for the wrongs other people did. Maybe, after all this time, he'd started to believe their version of him.

It was country dark, as Alice Jones had called these nights, the absence of any light but what you brought to the table. He sped up, his eyes focused on what was before him, and drove toward home.

Everybody has something that chews them up and, for me, that thing was always loneliness. The cinema has the power to make you not feel lonely, even when you are.

Being an only child, I didn't have any other family but my mom and dad really, since the rest of my family lived quite far away from London.

Picture the poor Arab private. He knows no one in his unit gives a shit about him; after all, he doesn't give a shit about any of them, either. They're not family. What happens when that private is placed in the loneliest position in the world, the modern battlefield? He runs at the first sign things are going badly. (He'll be fine as long as they are going well, though. Note: things rarely go well.)

En dieper dan de nacht'lijk roode stad, in tocht en vuilnisch der beschaving, op een smal perron met betegelde muuren en reclameborden, zoek ik de gelede kookers, de spooren en mechanische zuuren van een helwitte zwam: ondanks ontbuiging het geborgen gevoel, als in een schoot. Maar wie ben ik, dat ik hoopen kan. Dat ik niet word zooals den Roltrap hier: slechts bewegend door betreding, en door beweging sneller eenzaam.

I'm the girl nobody knows until she commits suicide. Then suddenly everyone had a class with her.

skin the off-white of a dirty motel sheet.

There is nothing more lonely than a true artist.

Relationships break down and many people live their days alone and for a lot of unions that do last not all the people are always so happy. Love is not guaranteed.

It's cold out there, colder than a ticket taker's smile at the Ivar Theatre on a Saturday night.

You must have brought the bad weather with you The sky's the color of lead All you've left me is a feather On an unmade bed

All my friends are dead, or else they're not feeling too good.

Society's dark hull drifts further and further away. It is this place - the place of our separation, our distinction - that much of his poetry occupies.

The ocean and outer space are the same thing... There's no air. It's bleak and it's lonely... Humans have walked on the surface of the moon, but we still haven't been to the deepest part of the ocean.

You never told us how to spend time alone in the midst of half a million people. Here, stars don't shine at night, trees don't speak.

Lonely, ain't it? Yes, but my lonely is mine. Now your lonely is somebody else's. Made by somebody else and handed to you. Ain't that something? A secondhand lonely.

There is a loneliness that can be rocked. Arms crossed, knees drawn up, holding, holding on, this motion, unlike a ship's, smooths and contains the rocker. It's an inside kind--wrapped tight like skin. Then there is the loneliness that roams. No rocking can hold it down. It is alive. On its own. A dry and spreading thing that makes the sound of one's own feet going seem to come from a far-off place.

Eric Hinkle wasn't alone as he hopped

just another of the thousands of jobs rural policemen get solving little social problems among people turned eccentric by an overdose of dramatic skyscapes, endless silence and loneliness.

And sometimes, sitting in my chair I can feel the absence stretching out in all directions– like the deaf, defoliated silence just after a train has thundered past the platform, just before the mindless birds begin to chirp again –and the wildflowers that grow beside the tracks wobble wildly on their little stems, then gradually grow still and stand motherless and vertical in the middle of everything.