Quotes About Introspection

Un sentimiento de oscuridad lo cobija de cabeza a pies, acompañado de un escalofrío melancólico, que se asienta en todo su cuerpo.

Qué me sucede?» se pregunta, mientras un suspiro se escapa de lo más profundo de su corazón.

No soy nada…, no soy nada…» se repite una y otra vez, mientras, la oscuridad es absorbida por su piel, los latidos de su corazón, como sonidos de una antigua maquinaria de relojería, traquetean en sus oídos.

me lleva a internarme por un cultivo de maíz cercado por eucaliptos errantes.

Pero, ¿Escribir sobre qué? buena pregunta.

sentado sobre un viejo sillón desgastado, en una esquina sombría de la habitación, desmoronado, sin ganas de hacer alguna cosa, desilusionado por la cadena de fracasos en los últimos años;

mira con curiosidad la soledad del cuarto, la soledad de su propia alma;

No soy nada…, no soy nada…» se repite una y otra vez, mientras, la oscuridad es absorbida por su piel

imposible negar los sentimientos de miedo, arrepentimiento, angustia, soledad, clandestinidad que siempre nos acompañaron.

She would likely live and die alone. She had accepted that fact as best she could. Her escapes were the way she lived with it.

You can obsess and obsess over how things ended- what you did wrong or could have done differently- but there's not much of a point. It's not like it'll change anything. So really, why worry?

Some memories remain close; you can shut your eyes and find yourself back in them. But there are second-person memories, too, distant you memories, and these are trickier: you watch yourself in disbelief.

It is very east to forgive others their mistakes it takes more grit and gumption to forgive them for having witnessed your own.

It is very easy to forgive others their mistakes; it takes more grit to forgive them for having witnessed your own.

It is very easy to forgive others their mistakes; it takes more grit and gumption to forgive them for having witnessed your own.

Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking.

I am always jumping into the sausage grinder and deciding, even before I'm half ground, that I don't want to be a sausage after all.

In searching for a way out of my own troubles, I had found my way into the trouble of others, some long gone, and now I was trying to find my way back out, through their troubles, as if we human beings can ever learn from one another.

Sunday was always the best of days for being the self you had intended to be, but were not, for one reason or another.

I have always despised people who join societies. In general, I feel that groups of any kind are for the weak. The need for consensus is the most disgusting and pathetic aspect of our human world. Is there none who can simply wander alone beneath a sort of cloth tent painted with dreams?

Some people forget, do you know – they forget what it is like to be young, to feel things ruthlessly, terribly. If you forget that much of life, well, I don't know.

When I think about what my future holds, it is a bit like looking into the sun. I flinch away, or I don't and my eyes get burned down a bit, like candles, and then I can't see for a while.

My wife wrote me letters when we first met. We would meet every day, or nearly every day, but still she would write me letters. She thought the person she was in her letters was someone she herself did not know until the letter was written, and then it was like she was meeting herself.

In general I think sadness kind of take the strength away from anger, or maybe they just waver back and forth. I don't know. All I know is most of the time I am one or the other—angry or sad.