Quotes About Anguish

I burst into tears and I cry and cry until it feels as though it is not salt and water being squeezed from my eyes, but blood.

As I stood in the room looking at it for the last time, I felt again the cold metal of the handcuffs on my wrists and remembered the physical suffering and mental anguish I had endured while fighting with all the willpower and intellect God had given me for that rare and elusive thing in a Communist country called justice.

My principle anguish and the source of all my joys and sorrows from my youth onward has been the incessant, merciless battle between the spirit and the flesh.

I'm alone and am suffocating because I'm unable to give voice to my emotions.

My heart is always heavy. No matter where I go, I have no pleasure. I'm hiding. Everything that I do, write and think strikes me as unworthy. And human beings are horrible, ignoble companions. I often think, furthermore, that the only thing worthy of our lofty nature is death.

I think I am going to die of anguish. I cannot do it. I do not have the strength any longer to begin. My mind is fully armed, but I am unable to take the frightening leap.

I have an extremely profound sadness, disturbance, uneasiness, abrupt alternation of insane joy and the most unbearable anguish.

My principle anguish and source of all my joys and sorrows from my youth onward has been the incessant, merciless battle between the spirit and the flesh...and my soul is the arena where these two armies have clashed and met.

My soul is seething, agitated by a certain vague desire, an incomprehensible soul-fluttering, a magical attraction, a hidden pain.

La conciencia era un dolor insoportable.

I am an invisible monster, and I am incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse.

Which is worse: Hell or nothing?

With a gun barrel between your teeth, you speak only in vowels.

No, I say, it's fine. Put a gun to my head and paint the wall with my brains. Just great, I say. Really.

It's nice to see something more pathetic than I feel right now.

Put the gun to my head and paint walls with my brains.

If you ask me, people in hell just scream to hear their own voice and to pass time.

How I feel is cheap and used, dirty and humiliated. Dirty and tricked and thrown away.

I am Jack's broken heart.

This is when I'd cry because right now, your life comes down to nothing, and not even nothing, oblivion.

Still screaming. As if the stars give a shit.

A headache, I get the kind of headache God would smote you with in the Old Testament.

So why do you want to die so bad?

Maybe self-destruction is the answer.