Quotes About Yearning

I am dying of hunger.

If I like something, I then have to study every single aspect of it to find out if there's more things that I would like, and it's just this weird hunger to want more. I always feel like there's so much that exists.

I find hunger more interesting than accomplishment.

I left home because I was hungry.

I don't think I will ever be content. I am somebody who is always hungry.

You get away from something long enough, you miss it. You get hungry for it.

I'm a fan of leaving people hungry; I don't like leaving people satisfied.

It's an awful feeling, being hungry.

do not turn anything Into something longed for, For then it's dreadful to lose.

Because you can't be as in love as we were and not have it invade your bone marrow. Our kind of love can go into remission, but it's always waiting to return. Like the world's sweetest cancer.

I ached once, hard, like a period typed at the end of a sentence.

To spend a life in dreams, that sounded too lovely.

There was nothing I wanted to do more than be unconscious again, wrapped in black, gone away. I was raw. I felt swollen with potential tears, like a water balloon filled to burst. Begging for a pin prick.

I still believed he'd love me again somehow, love me that intense, thick way he did, the way that made everything good.

Sometimes he felt like he'd been gone his whole life--in exile, away from the place he was supposed to be, and that, soldier-like, he was pining to be returned. Homesick for a place he'd never been.

Our kind of love can go into remission, but it's always waiting to return. Like the world sweetest cancer.

My brain is so busy with Nick thoughts, it's a swarm inside my head: Nicknicknicknicknick! And when I picture his mind, I hear my name as a shy crystal ping that occurs once, maybe twice, a day and quickly subsides. I just wish he thought about me as much as I do him. Is that wrong? I don't even know anymore.

There might be a space too, for this. The feel of killing, there might be an empty spot just waiting to be filled.

Please let him look. I didn't need to hide from someone courting oblivion as ardently as I am.

At one point, she probably liked the idea of a daughter. When she was a girl, I bet she daydreamed of being a mother, of coddling, of licking her child like a milk-swelled cat. She has that voraciousness about children. She swoops in on them. Even I, in public, was a beloved child.

And when I picture his mind, I hear my name as a shy crystal ping that occurs once, maybe twice, a day and quickly subsides. I just wish he thought about me as much as I do him.

Sometimes he felt like he'd been gone his whole life—in exile, away from the place he was supposed to be, and that, soldier-like, he was pining to be returned. Homesick for a place he'd never been.

I've basically turned into Liza Minnelli: I'm dancing in tights and sequins, begging you to love me.

It's probably why I was so hateful to her, she kept me from what I wanted the most.