Quotes About Emptiness

A cicada whines, his voice Starting to drown through the rainy world, No ripple of wind, no sound but his song of black wings, No song but the song of his black wings. Such emptiness at the heart, such emptiness at the heart of being

Lonesomeness. Morandi, Cezanne, it's all about lonesomeness. And Rothko. Especially Rothko.

Love from the abandoned heart of a nonexistent dog.

I just miss him, is all. He used to make me laugh, nothing else did.

Desperation, she said, feels like someone's reaching down your throat and ripping out your guts.

I feel monotony and death to be almost the same.

Christ, he was empty, just a shell of himself. He had nothing to give, not even his seed.

I have been through the gates, I have groped, I have crept Back, back. There is dust in the streets, and blood; they are empty; darkness is over them; His heart is a place with the lights gone out, forsaken by great winds and the heavenly rain, unclean and unswept, Like the heart of the holy city, old, blind, beautiful Jerusalem, Over which Christ wept.

To create is to defy emptiness. It is generous, it affirms. To make is to add to the world, not subtract from it.

Except for the memories of his daughter and his son it was already as though he had never existed.

The source of stillness is in emptiness. All things and the changes they go through are but temporary conditions, which finally return to nothingness, then revert to emptiness. As long as the human mind is not still and quiet, there will be thoughts of desire remaining, which create tremendous obstacles to the cultivation of refinement.

My whole life sort of ended when my mom died.

I was a pebble. I was a leaf. I was the jagged branch of a tree. I was nothing to them and they were everything to me.

Alone had always felt like an actual place to me

I was a pebble. I was a leave. I was the jagged branch of a tree. I was nothing to them and they were everything to me.

A mountain that's had its very heart removed.

Z is like a motorcycle with no one on it. Beautiful. Going nowhere.

A caldera, it's called—a sort of mountain in reverse. A mountain that's had its very heart removed.

He hadn't loved

I clutched its mate to my chest like a baby, though of course it was futile. What is one boot without the other boot? It is nothing.

It was wrong. It was so relentlessly awful that my mother had been taken from me.

It had been an indisputably good time, but now I felt empty. Like there was something I didn't even know I wanted until I didn't get it.

All of that was impossible now, regardless of what the letter said. My mom was dead. My mom was dead. My mom was dead. Everything I ever imagined about myself had disappeared into the crack of her last breath.

This was once an empty bowl that took hundreds of years to fill. But hard as I tried, I couldn't see them in my mind's eye. Not the mountain or the wasteland or the empty bowl. They simply were not there anymore. There was only the stillness and silence of that water: what a mountain and a wasteland and an empty bowl turned into after the healing began.