Quotes About Introspection

We should be careful who we blame for our unhappiness when we ourselves have created the causes for our unhappy experiences.

Buddhism is about understanding our own true nature. What and who we really are.

the experience of an event depends on the mind of the experiencer, even more than the event itself.

As the shadow follows the body, as we think, so we become.

The quiet this evening is unsettling. I hadn't realised how loud life was until it all stopped.

Maybe it's not that it's too quiet now, maybe it was too loud before?

Your unconscious mind is trying to figure out how to talk to your conscious.

Where did you learn that?" Vein asked, still staring. "I read," Bruno said evenly. "I talk less than the rest of you. It gives me time.

Why does it always feel like I'm standing on the edge of some kind of big, black pit?" "There are a lot of pits," Donovan said. "The most interesting lives are lived walking around the rims.

The world is full of healing; you just got to know where to look.

I love him, she thought. I'm just not in love with him and also I don't love him. I've tried, I've strained to love him but I can't. I am building a life with a man I don't love, and I don't know what to do about it.

She shouldn't speak her thoughts; nothing good ever came of speaking your thoughts.

She glanced at the other diners, all of them going into their act, and thought is this what it all boils down to? Romantic love, is this all it is, a talent show?

We're not ourselves, are we? I'm certainly not myself, not anymore. And you're not either. You don't seem yourself. Not as I remember you.

As a matter of fact, I think there are more things important in life than "relationships.

Good God, 'the elusive thing'. She had reached a turning point. She no longer believed that a situation could be made better by writing a poem about it.

I have always been well liked, I think, always well regarded and respected, but having few enemies is not the same as having many friends, and there was no denying that I was, if not "lonely", more solitary than I'd hoped to be at that time.

Dexter, I love you so much. So, so much, and I probably always will.' Her lips touched his cheek. 'I just don't like you anymore. I'm sorry.

I am not up to this. I am not capable. I thought I would be, but I'm not. Some part of me is missing, and I cannot do this.

She made a firm resolution, one of the resolutions she was making almost daily these days. No more sleepovers, no more writing poetry, no more wasting time. Time to tidy up your life. Time to start again.

He] didn't like to think of himself as vain, but there were definitely times when he wished there was someone on hand to take his photograph.

Recently he has noticed idiocy creeping up on him. His resolve to keep his head on straight, his feet on the ground, is failing and he has observed, quite objectively, that he is becoming more thoughtless, selfish, making more and more stupid remarks. He has tried to do something about this but it almost feels out of his control now, like pattern baldness. Why not just give in and be an idiot? Stop caring.

She no longer think that a situation could be made better by writing a poem about it.

If she does have a failing, and it's obviously only a tiny one, it's that she doesn't seem particularly curious about other people, or me, anyway.