Two turtle doves will show thee Where my cold ashes lie And sadly murmuring tell thee How in tears I did die
When the silence and the aloneness press down and around me, crushing me, carving through me like ice, I need to speak aloud sometimes, if only for proof of life.
I have hardly anything in common with myself and should stand very quietly in a corner, content that I can breathe.
She had known happiness, exquisite happiness, intense happiness, and it silvered the rough waves a little more brightly, as daylight faded, and the blue went out of the sea and it rolled in waves of pure lemon which curved and swelled and broke upon the beach and the ecstasy burst in her eyes and waves of pure delight raced over the floor of her mind and she felt, It is enough! It is enough!
What was wrong with me? I had a decent life. I was healthy. I wasn't starving or maimed by a land mine or orphaned. Yet somehow, it wasn't enough. I had a hole in me, and everything I took for granted slipped through it like sand. I felt like I had swallowed yeast, like whatever evil was festering inside me had doubled in size.
Loneliness is about the scariest thing out there.
The tragedy of this world is that everyone is alone. For a life in the past cannot be shared with the present.
There's a sorrow and pain in everyone's life, but every now and then there's a ray of light that melts the loneliness in your heart and brings comfort like hot soup and a soft bed.
The whole conviction of my life now rests upon the belief that loneliness, far from being a rare and curious phenomenon, peculiar to myself and to a few other solitary men, is the central and inevitable fact of human existence.
Solitude is the soil in which genius is planted, creativity grows, and legends bloom; faith in oneself is the rain that cultivates a hero to endure the storm, and bare the genesis of a new world, a new forest.
l(a le af fa ll s)o ne li ne ss
True confessions are written with tears only. But my tears would drown the world, as my inner fire would reduce it to ashes.
That was what magic did. It revealed the heart of who you'd been before life took away your belief in the possible. It gave back the world all lonely children longed for.
If loneliness was a choice, what was the other option? To settle for second-best and try to be happy with that? And was that fair to the person you settled for?
Words are loneliness.
A hunted man sometimes wearies of distrust and longs for friendship.
It is beautiful, it is endless, it is full and yet seems empty. It hurts us.
A poet should be so crafty with words that he is envied even for his pains.
He could only consider me as the living corpse of a would-be suicide, a person dead to shame, an idiot ghost.
Lying is easy. But it's lonely." "What do you mean?" "When you lie to everyone about everything, what's left? What's true?" "Nothing," I say. "Exactly.