Quotes About Emptiness

Tengo la horrible sensación de que pasa el tiempo y no hago nada y nada acontece, y nada me conmueve hasta la raíz

A veces me siento desdichada, nada más que de no saber qué es lo que estoy echando de menos.

But never in his saddest dreams had he thought he'd spend his last years dusting this enormous old house for no one at all.

But I didn't cry. I sat stiller than I'd ever sat, just kind of falling in on myself, getting denser and smaller, and all the while I screamed. Not with my vocal chords, nothing so pure and ordinary as that. My mouth didn't move, but I screamed with my whole body, my hair, my fingers, the back of my neck, the pit of my stomach, the pores of my skin. I screamed until I didn't have any voice left, until I was empty, and then I floated, shivering, in an ice-cold ocean of silence.

There's more hunger in the world than love.

The mind that realizes its own Buddha nature is said to be like clear space—it is empty and all-pervasive but also vividly aware.

This insight works especially well for men who long to hear their fathers say the magic words, "I'm proud of you, son." Men who, as kids, did not have the admiration of their dads feel a gaping deprivation; those who did have it long for sweet boyhood moments they can never recapture. That is why, if you want to see a grown man cry, get him to talk about his father.

Artificial pleasures arrive stillborn; they have no life of their own.

The marathon lane is largely empty, mostly silent: the road of the damned rather than the saved.

Gone. The saddest word in the language. In any language.

I lost my father this past year, and the word feels right because I keep looking for him. As if he were misplaced. As if he could just turn up, like a sock or a set of keys.

Nobody knows you. You are the neighbor of nothing.

I would go out under the stars and enter the smallness of being that was mine, and I would disappear into the emptiness within, and it seemed enormous.

The graves grow deeper. The dead are more dead each night. Under the elms and the rain of leaves, The graves grow deeper. The dark folds of the wind Cover the ground. The night is cold. The leaves are swept against the stones. The dead are more dead each night. A starless dark embraces them. Their faces dim. We cannot remember them Clearly enough. We never will.

En un campo yo soy la ausencia del campo

In a field, I am the absence of field.

In a field I am the absence of field. This is always the case. Wherever I am I am what is missing.

When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body's been.

in a matter of seconds, his faith in God, in life, in love, and in a better tomorrow drained away to empty.

The truck sped up, and Adeline's cousin spiraled out of her life like a leaf caught in a gale.

I am made of pieces and of the spaces between them where other pieces used to be. I am a landscape of loss. Most of me is the memory of where else, and who else, and with whom, I have been and no longer am.

It is a time when one's spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death.

Who is sitting in that empty chair?

You promise?""I cross the place where my heart used to be and wish to be even more deader than I am now.