Firstly: don't touch the hands of your cuckoo-clock heart. Secondly: master your anger. Thirdly: never, ever fall in love. For if you do, the hour hand will poke through your skin, your bones will shatter, and your heart will break once more.
I'm not staying with him for the pain. It's what he says in his sleep. When he's moaning, he whispers. The cry he utters with a face so full of sorrow. "So...""...rry...""I'm sorry..."It makes me sad that no one hears his apology.
...you have to learn where your pain is. You have to burrow down and find the wound, and if the burden of it is too terrible to shoulder, you have to shout it out; you have to shout for help... And then finally, the way through grief is grieving.
But I want her, I must have her, I shall die if I do not get her - false, proud, black-hearted daughter of a dog that she is! I cannot sleep and my food has no savor and my eyes are darkened because of her beauty. I must have the barbarian queen.
It was the sheer variety of the pain that stopped me from crying out. It came from so many places, spoke so many languages, wore so many dazzling varieties of ethnic costume, that for a full fifteen seconds I could only hang my jaw in amazement.
I’m clenching my fists so tight my fingernails leave red crescent moons on my skin. I feel a surge, a heat roar up inside me. As bad as I’m hurting now, he’ll hurt ten times worse. That’s the only thing that keeps me going.
The muscles behind both eyes hurt and the skin all down the frontis swelling from the veins burst though the circles look less sunk. Tears did fill them in though and I did push the wavesright from my own souls windows to water down it's grave
I must believe that it is easier when it isn't a struggle to take every breath, when it isn't torture to live every day, when it doesn't hurt to see the new sun rise. I must believe these things or there is no point in living anymore.
Finally, his whole body burst into flames and as the pain became unbearable, he threw his arms in the air and screamed in agony. In his final moments, the words of the Nazarene echoed through his mind: 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Men broke into their homes, killed their families, threatened you--and you won't let them do anything for fear you'll be hurt. That's selfish. How would you like it if I took your bow and said I cared too much about you to let you fight?
There's a place beyond words where experience first occurs to which I always want to return. I suspect that whenever I articulate my thoughts or translate my impulses into words, I am betraying the real thoughts and impulses which remain hidden.
Great Benefactor! How absurd- to want pain! Can there be anyone who doesn't know that pain is a negative quality, and that if you add them up it reduces the sum we call happiness? so it follows...But...nothing follows. The slate is clean. Naked.
Life is sad and there is nothing we can do about it. All we can is to be vigilant about what we should not do. The worst thing we can do is to not feel the sadness, to not weep, to not acknowledge the hurt that sits at the core of the human heart.
Tell me, Nana,If for example we had been a love couple,Would a hug have been enough to wash away my sadness?Or then; does every single being carry this loneliness, like a burden?I wans't intending to monopolizing youI just wanted you to need me.
Let me love you, he saidI want to mould that broken heart,To feel the pain the others before I have caused,Walk down the darkness that you walked through,Understand how something so broken can be so beautiful,I need to understand how you manifested.
