Quotes About Loss

Alas, poor YORICK!

j'ai songé alors que ce qui est violent, ce n'est pas le temps qui passe, c'est l'effacement des sentiments et des émotions. Comme s'ils n'avaient jamais existé.

Le plus difficile, c'est la non-certitude, cette probabilité, même infime, que vous puissiez la retrouver encore. Cette brèche vous laisse dans l'errance, vous empêche de commencer à faire votre deuil.

As the natural coherence of the world vanishes, there's a guilt that grows great and angry in the basement of our beings.

Often when we realize how precious those seconds are, it's too late for them to be captured because the moment has passed. We realize too late.

Sometimes, people can go missing right before our very eyes.Sometimes, people can discover you, even though they've been looking at you the entire time. Sometimes, we lose sight of ourselves when we're not paying enough attention.

I wake up in the morning and I feel like I'm missing something. I know that there's something not right, and it takes me a while to remember what it is . . . then I remember. My best friend is gone. My only friend. It was silly of me to rely so much on one person.

Betrayal and grief have a certain color no matter what the species is.

Mourning for the living cuz im so damn jealous of the dead.

We love, while knowing that someday our love might be lost forever. We laugh as we stride along, even while recognising that doom lies at the end of the road. We give, while comprehending that in the end 'twill all be taken away. we are nothing less then heroes.

It really kind of sucked to be close to someone for so long and then suddenly not be anything anymore.

È sempre stato così, in tutti i miei viaggi: sono sempre un perdente, perché mi attacco troppo alle cose, o alle persone, e cosi il viaggio non è più un viaggio, ma un ripetuto addio Ho passato il tempo a dire addio e a ricordare, e a raccogliere indirizzi nelle mie agendine come piccole lapidi.

La foto è il feticcio che ti dovrebbe riportare indietro il tempo, ma il guadagno coincide con la perdita: in cambio del ricordo di un te stesso precedente ricevi la consapevolezza di ciò che è definitivamente passato, dell'istante che non tornerà mai più mentre ciò che volevi era proprio fermarlo.

What made something precious? Losing it and finding it.

It terrifies you. That you missed out on something. That you gave up something you didn't know you wanted." A sharp, pitying smile pinched the corners of her lips. "What was it? Was it a boy? Was it a vocation? Or was it a whole life?

You loved so hard and hoped so much and then you ended up with nothing. Children who no longer needed you. A husband who no longer wanted you. Nothing left but you, alone, and empty space.

It would disappear forever from her memory of Lydia, the way memories of a lost loved one always smooth and simplify themselves, shedding complexities like scales.

He can guess, but he won't ever know, not really. What it was like, what she was thinking, everything she'd never told him. Whether she thought he'd failed her, or whether she wanted him to let her go. This, more than anything, makes him feel that she is gone.

There is nowhere to go but on. Still, part of her longs to go back for one instant—not to change anything, not even to speak to Lydia, not to tell her anything at all. Just to open the door and see her daughter there, asleep, one more time, and know all was well.

All of that will be gone by morning. Instead, they will dissect this last evening for years to come. What had they missed that they should have seen? What small gesture, forgotten, might have changed everything? They will pick it down to the bones, wondering how this had all gone so wrong, and they will never be sure.

She did not know how to explain what happened, how everything has changed in just one day, how someone she loved so dearly could be there one minute, and the next minute: gone.

It had not been science that Lydia had loved. And then, as if the tears are telescopes, she begins to see more clearly: the shredded posters and pictures, the rubble of books, the shelf prostrate at her feet. Everything that she had wanted for Lydia, which Lydia had never wanted but had embraced anyway. A dull chill creeps over her. Perhaps—and this thought chokes her—that had dragged Lydia underwater at last.

What made something precious? Losing it and finding it. All those times he'd pretended to lose her.

Who ever thinks, recalling the face of the one they loved who is gone: yes, I looked at you enough, I loved you enough, we had enough time, any of this was enough?