Quotes About Longing

I've been dating since I was fifteen. I'm exhausted. Where is he?

How fragile life was, how fragile they were. Love. It was the beginning and end of everything, the foundation and the ceiling and the air in between. It didn't matter that she was broken and ugly and sick. He loved her and she loved him, All her life she had waited -longed for - people to love her, but now she saw what she really mattered. She had known love, been blessed by it.

How will I stop loving him, Mama? Will I .... forget ? Mama sighed. Ah. That. Love doesn't fade or die, baby girl. People tell you it does, but it doesn't. If you love him now, you'll love him in ten years and in forty. Differently, maybe , a faded version, but he's part of you now. And you are part of him.

To lose love is a terrible thing. But to turn away from it is unbearable. Will you spend the rest of your life replaying it in your head? Wondering if you walked away too soon or too easily? Or if you'll ever love anyone that deeply again?

You will always miss her. There will be days - even years from now - when the missing will be so sharp it will take your breath away. But there will be good days, too, months and years of them. In one way or another you'll be searching for her all your life.

Apparently you couldn't stop loving some people, or needing their love, even when you knew better.

She waited for you in a thousand different ways.

No mother. Two small words, and yet within them lay a bottomless well of pain and loss, a ceaseless mourning for touches that were never received and words of wisdom that were never spoken. No single word was big enough to adequately describe the loss of your mother.

It occurred to her suddenly, sharply, that she wanted to be in love... She wanted not to feel so damned alone in the world.

In his face, I see the whole of my life. I see a baby who came to me long after I'd given up Ã¢â'¬Â¦ and a hint of the beauty I once had. I see Ã¢â'¬Â¦ my life in his eyes.

He leans close and kisses each of my cheeks, whispering, "I loved her all of my life," as he draws back.

Love. It was the beginning and end of everything, the foundation and the ceiling and the air in between. It didn't matter that she was broken and ugly and sick. He loved her and she loved him. All her life she had waited—longed for—people to love her, but now she saw what really mattered. She had known love, been blessed by it. Papa. Maman. Sophie. Antoine. Micheline. Anouk. Henri. Gaëtan. Vianne. She

Lost is lost; it's when you want someone to hold you but there is no one who can. Lost is alone, even when people are all around you.

it was only possible to live without love when you'd never known it.

She had this terrible, irrational fear that if she let go of him she would never touch him again and the thought of that was paralyzing.

I know, released, she won't come back. This is different from letting what, already, we count as lost go. It is nothing like that. Also, it is not like wanting to learn what losing a thing we love feels like, Oh yes: I love her.

There are two kinds of people in this world, those who long to be understood and those who long to be misunderstood. It is the irony of life that neither is gratified.

In fact, since I ceased to love I have known no peace. During my sleepless nights I feel sapped of energy, tormented by the wanderings of my spirit.

Because everything that begins must end. What causes us to suffer is not in the past or the future: it is here, now, in our memory, in our expectations. We long for timelessness, we endure the passing of time: we suffer time. Time is suffering.

But it isn't absence that causes sorrow. It is affection and love. Without affection, without love, such absences would cause us no pain. For this reason, even the pain caused by absence is, in the end, something good and even beautiful, because it feeds on that which gives meaning to life.

What causes us to suffer is not in the past or the future: it is here, now, in our memory, in our expectations. We long for timelessness, we endure the passing of time: we suffer time. Time is suffering.

Ma non è l'assenza che provoca dolore. Sono l'affetto e l'amore. Se non ci fosse affetto, se non ci fosse amore, non ci sarebbe il dolore dell'assenza. Per questo anche il dolore dell'assenza, in fondo, è buono e bello, perché si nutre di quello che dà senso alla vita.

It's suffering because we must lose what we have and are attached to. Because everything that begins must end. What causes us to suffer is not in the past or the future: it is here, now, in our memory, in our expectations. We long for timelessness, we endure the passing of time: we suffer time. Time is suffering.

as Lucretius wrote: 'our appetite for life is voracious, our thirst for life insatiable