Quotes About Loss

O amor perdido não deixa de ser amor. Apenas assume uma forma diferente. Não conseguimos ver o sorriso da pessoa amada, ou levar-lhe comida, ou mexer-lhe nos cabelos, ou rodopiar com ela numa pista de dança. Mas quando esses sentimentos enfraquecem, há outro que se sublime. A memória. A memória torna-se nossa companheira. Alimenta-nos. A vida tem um fim. Mas o Amor não.

Have you ever dreamt of someone who's gone,but in the dream you have new conversation? The world you enter then is not so far from the world I'm in now.

Do not cry for losing blood. Not for something you love.

tapes, like photographs and videos, are [nothing more than] a desperate attempt to steal something from death's suitcase.

If we love something and somebody so much, how much—if at all—are they ever really gone from our hearts?

Lost love is still love, Eddie. It just takes a different form, that's all. You can't hold their hand... You can't tousle their hair... But when those senses weaken another one comes to life... Memory... Memory becomes your partner. You hold it... you dance with it... Life has to end, Eddie... Love doesn't.

Loss is as old as life itself. But for all our evolution, we are yet to accept it.

But my father, a thief in many ways, had robbed me of my concentration.

Lost love is still love. It takes a different form.

I hope you can find the healing power in grieving.

Do not cry over losing blood. Not for something you love.

Feeling loss is part of why you are on Earth. Through it, you appreciate the brief gift of human existence, and you learn to cherish the world I created for you.

She explains that lost love is still love.Life has to end but love doesn't

You're never in love with anyone the way you are when you're eighteen, on a beach, at night, with your shoes off. I still can't believe he's gone.

Lost love is still love, Eddie. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it. "Life has to end," she said. "Love doesn't.

Morrie," Koppel said, "that was seventy years ago your mother died. The pain still goes on?" "You bet," Morrie whispered.

Morrie went to his funeral. He came home depressed. "What a waste," he said. "All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv never got to hear any of it.

Once, when Giselle was alive, he thought about the future. Now he only thought about the past.

His running was over. His dancing was over. Worse, for some reason, the way he used to feel about things was over, too. He withdrew. Things seemed silly or pointless

How do we say good-bye to you without saying good-bye to apiece of ourselves? Where do we look for you now?

We could look out our windows and still see your face, still hear your voice on the wind. But where do we look for you now?

But every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at our tables long after they have gone.

Life has to end, she said. Love doesn't.

And a man without memories is just a shell.