Patience, n.
A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue.
All commend patience, but none can endure to suffer.
Personality is born out of pain. It is the fire shut up in the flint.
Great souls suffer in silence.
Some of the things that hurt most in life is what you don't hear, see, or even feel.
It's not that I don't suffer, it's that I know the unimportance of suffering, I know that
pain is to be fought and thrown aside, not to be accepted as part of one's soul and as a permanent
scar across one's view of existence. Don't feel sorry for me. It was gone right then.
I was trying to escape the pain I felt. I thought I could take the uniform, wrap it
around the pain and toss them both away. But it doesn't work like that. Running may help for a
little while, but sooner or later the pain catches up with you, and the only way to get rid of it
is to stand your ground.
There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.
I sensed a deep sadness in her, but couldn't understand it. Looking back, I now think the
sadness stemmed from being a person who really didn't fit into the high school plan.
For me, I just wanted the pain to stop. And it got to the point where I was willing to do
whatever it took to make that happen.
If you learn from your suffering, and really come to understand the lesson you were taught,
you might be able to help someone else who's now in the phase you may have just completed. Maybe
that's what it's all about after all. . .
The longer I live, the more I see that I am never wrong about anything, and that all the
pains I have so humbly taken to verify my notions have only wasted my time.
I'm not sad, I'm just not very happy.
There is one pain I often feel, which you'll never know. It's caused by the absence of
you.
If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.
There is something pleasurable in the calm remembrance of a past sorrow.
Nothing is more sad than the death of an illusion.
. . . and so it was written that the pain and suffering will end. The only problem was
that we weren't allowed to see the book.
There is nothing in the whole world so painful as the feeling that one is not liked.
There's just something about him that grabs my heart, and makes me hurt that I can't have
him.
You're everything I've wanted. You're beautiful. You're reckless. And a little sad.
You know it's the sadness that got me right from the start. I wanted to make it go away, and for
a time I thought I had. It's pretty stupid, huh? You like the sadness. You cling to it, and
in the end it will be all you have.
I've learned that no matter how bad your heart is broken the world doesn't stop for your
grief.
I think I was born with a broken heart.
Grief teaches the steadiest mind to waver.
For we are born in others pain, and perish in our own.
Why didn't you tell me? If it had to happen to one of us, why did it have to happen to
you?
But speak again; whatever it is, I can bear it: Grief and I are no stangers.
They say the rain falls endlessly and sifting soft snow; her tears are never done. I feel
the loneliness of her death in mine.
I look right through him, hoping, praying he can feel my fear, my pain from inside of me.
Home? I say to myself. I have no home.
I cannot imagine any grief that you and I have not gone through.
It was her own appalling inadequacy; her cowardice; her mean, water-sprinkled blood that
depressed her.
We are all like flies trying to crawl over the edge of the saucer, she thought, and
repeated the phrase as if she were crossing herself, as if she were trying to find some spell to
annul this pain, to make this agony endurable.
Each morning I awake, the sky is grey, the trees are bare. A single crow calls my name as
I weep into the pillow, wondering when it will ever end.
We can't tell the future. We can't undo the past. But I know it won't always hurt this
bad.
It's not very pleasant in my corner of the world at three o'clock in the morning. But for
people who like cold, wet, ugly bits it is something rather special.
. . .there's not enough room in the world for my pain. . .
That is what to the pain means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish
misery forever.
Ask me how many times my heart has been broken and I'll tell you to look at the sky and
count the stars.
Avoid the question 'why me?' It saves a lot of grief.
Being cut with a sword hurts, and if you are close enough to do it, you can't miss the
other's pain.
Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that
you don't merely suffer, but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer. I not only
live each endless day in grief, but live each day thinking about living each day in grief.
She used to love jokes, painful ones. She loved hurting people. She thought it would
lessen the hurt and loneliness she felt, but it never did.
We're all worried, we're all in pain. That comes with having eyes, having ears.
I don't want to heal. I opened a wound, right here. It hurts like hell. I don't want it
to get better and I don't want to pretend that everything's all right.
I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me
so much.
The pain others give passes away in their later kindness, but that of our own blunders,
especially when they hurt our vanity, never passes away.
It takes time to heal deep wounds. And even after they have healed over, it shall leave a
scar to last a lifetime.
I have my moments. I know why people kill themselves. I know why people do drugs. I
understand. I get it.
Revenge is a confession of pain.