Quotes About Yearning

It's nonverbal: I need love. I need the thing that happens when your brain shuts off and your heart turns on. And I know it's around me somewhere, but I just can't feel it.

For all of my life I have needed more.

I am crying over the elusive nature of love.

And then I think of the Velvet Underground's doleful song Jesus, from their third and least renowned or appreciated album. It is my favorite. Jesus / Help me find my proper place / Help me in my weakness / 'Cause I'm falling out of grace. The only words in the song, repeated repeatedly, composed by Lou Reed, a Jew. You see, in the hour of darkness, it is easier to turn to the Son of God than to God Himself, for some reason. I'm not sure why.

Homesickness is just a state of mind for me. I'm always missing someone or someplace or something. I'm always trying to get back to some imaginary somewhere. My life has been one long longing.

And then there are my friends, and they have their own lives. While they like to talk everything through, to analyze and hypothesize, what I really need, what I'm really looking for, is not something I can articulate. It's nonverbal: I need love. I need the thing that happens when your brain shuts off and your heart turns on. And I know it's around me somewhere, but I just can't feel it.

Sometimes someone will be standing in front of me, and already I feel him walking away. It's only a matter of time, so what's the point?

I've got to go home. Even if such place doesn't really exist.

I had tried so hard for so many years to turn all my despair into sexual abandon, I wanted so much to stop being me and start being someone else's toy, but I didn't have it in me.

Whether the emotion is true or truly wished for, anytime anything resembling love comes my way, it makes a fool of me. It

I need love. I need the thing that happens when your brain shuts off and your heart turns on.

And you know how it is with things that mean a lot to you. They get heavy. They drive you crazy. They make life worth living, they make life unliveable, you can't stay, you can't go, there's not enough tequila in all of Mexico to straighten out your mind, years go by and nothing ever changes. This face is one that will make you weak forever.

But in the end, after the curtain dropped over these little dramas, they all seemed able to go back to their rooms and back to their lives, they all seemed to know that it was just a game, that it scuffed you up and wore you out a little, but that you would get on with it. Only I seemed to be left behind, crying and screaming about wanting more, wanting my money back, wanting some satisfaction, wanting to feel something. I was the only person going to a prostitute in search of true love.

It's nonverbal: I need love. I need the thing that happens when your brain shuts off and your heart turns on.

My life has been one long longing.

I studied you until I knew you, or at least, the public parts of you: your learning, your passion, the way your voice slows down when you answer a question. I studied your hands, and wondered how they'd touch me; your hair, and how it would smell. I wondered about that and about the rest of you I could not see. I wanted to know you. And I wanted you to know me. I wanted you to see me.

On February 9, Shackleton wrote: "No seals. Must reduce blubber consumption . . . oh for a touch of dry land under our feet.

They thought of home, naturally, but there was no burning desire to be in civilization for its own sake. Worsley recorded: "Waking on a fine morning I feel a great longing for the smell of dewy wet grass and flowers of a Spring morning in New Zealand or England. One has very few other longings for civilization—good bread and butter, Munich beer, Coromandel rock oysters, apple pie and Devonshire cream are pleasant reminiscences rather than longings.

And this gray spirit yearning in desireTo follow knowledge like a sinking star,Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

He seems so near, and yet so far.

But what am I?An infant crying in the night:An infant crying for the light:And with no language but a cry.

But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.

Come into the garden, Maud,For the black bat, night, has flown,Come into the garden, Maud,I am here at the gate alone.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.