Quotes About Pain

There is never a first time in memory, it is only in life that the future is uncertain, in memory the pain always returns in precisely the same manner, rushing to the present, you have to avoid certain places as you go over the past with the eye of the camera, whoever looks at himself on such s a screen loses all hope.

There are lessons in life that we all have to experience for ourselves. There are other lessons that we can learn from others, lessons that spare us the pain and cost of experience.

He wondered how far his legs would carry him on their own - how long before his brain took over them and began punishing them, making them work past any sane limit, to keep a bullet from crashing into its own bony cradle.

Pero era evidente que le había dolido. Le había dolido antes, de la peor manera, al advertir que el dejaría de existir mientras el universo seguiría girando igual que siempre, intacto e insensible.

Things hurt more when you were alone, that was all.

people need a little loving and, God, sometimes it's sad all the shit they have to go through to find some.

As the Bruises Fade, the Lightning Aches" As the bruises fade, the lightning aches. Last week, making love, you bit me. Now the blue and dark have gone and yellow bruises grow toward pale daffodils, then paler to become until my body is all my own and what that ever got me.

How about this one: you are simply a distinction—a meme—invented because it was convenient to talk about the parts of the universe that feel pain when hit with a hammer. To the universe, there's no you . . . or human beings or giraffes or solar systems or galaxies. All those are human-invented distinctions. They are all memes.

Jeff Brown explores the phenomenon in depth in his film Karmageddon: "After my childhood, I needed the kinds of spirituality that would keep me from allowing the pain to surface…. I was confusing self-avoidance with enlightenment."9

Things bled. They bled and bled and would not stop bleeding. There would be no dramatic end, she realised, only a slow withering […] bleeding and more bleeding.

Virtue is virtue, and, like suffering, it is inexplicable, irreducible, unintelligible.

Suffering is not virtue, nor does it make virtue, nor does of it virtue necessarily flow.

Every death of those you love is the death also of so many shared memories and understanding, of a now irretrievable part of your own life.

they together staggered through those days that built like a scream that never ended, a wet, green shriek Dorrigo Evans found perversely amplified by the quinine deafness, the malarial haze that meant a minute took a lifetime to pass and that sometimes it was not possible to recall a week of misery and horror.

One small boy jumps over a table, pulls his jumper and shirt up, and turns his back to us to show where shrapnel wounded him when he was three. His classmates shriek with laughter.

A lot of things seem one way but are another. And how a thing seems is often just the game we play to save ourselves from great, panicking pain.

pushed by pain or pulled by possibility.

The laugh tagged on the end of it is forced as well. I smile fractionally. Edged with old pain, but there's a strange comfort to the way it hurts.

And now he couldn't cloak it any longer, the leaking sense of loss, more fucking loss, soaking through into the same old general, swirling sense of betrayal, years upon pissed-away years of it, made bitter and particular on his tongue now, as if Grace-of-Heaven had come wormwood into his mouth in those final clenched, pulsing seconds.

Ringil lifted his right hand as if it pained him, put it slowly and wonderingly up to his shoulder and touched the pommel of his sword like, well, like he was caressing someone's prick, to be honest.

The human race has dreamed of heaven and hell for millennia. Pleasure or pain unending, undiminished, and uncurtailed by the strictures of life or death. Thanks to virtual formatting, these fantasies can now exist. All that is needed is an industrial-capacity power generator. We have indeed made hell—and heaven—on earth.

Será mejor que se vaya, teniente. Todos estos prejuicios me dan dolor de cabeza.

The reward for attention is always healing. It may begin as the healing of a particular pain—the lost lover, the sickly child, the shattered dream. But what is healed, finally, is the pain that underlies all pain: the pain that we are all, as Rilke phrases it, "unutterably alone." More than anything else, attention is an act of connection. I learned this the way I have learned most things—quite

the pain that underlies all pain: the pain that we are all, as Rilke phrases it, "unutterably alone.