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Longing Quotes

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Longing Quotes

“Only now, in rhythmic waves, was she struck by her stupidity, her blindness, her estheronautiness, and, above all, her longing, the insult of the power of her longing, and she knew very well that is was these shortcomings that had made her so eager to interweave in his story the threads of her secret dreams of candor and of painful, purifying honesty; of a generous togetherness in which everything was possible. For a moment, with all that had been spun and stabbed and defiled within her, her face took on the expression of a frightened, abandoned girl who lunges out to bite, who lives unimaginably close to the skin’s surface, ready to be drawn out like a final plan of retreat.”

“Do you know that high fever which invades us in our cold suffering, that aching for a land we do not know, that anguish of curiosity? There is a country which resembles you, where everything is beautiful, sumptuous, authentic, still, where fantasy has built and adorned a western China, where life is sweet to breathe, where happiness is wed to silence. That is where to live, that is where to die!" - Invitation to a Voyage”

“I bore this with an overt detachment unknown to me in mortal life and came to understand this as a part of vampire nature: that I might sit at home at Pointe du Lac and think for hours of my brother's mortal life and see it short and rounded in unfathomable darkness, understanding now the vain and senseless passion with which I'd mourned his loss and turned on other mortals like a maddened animal. All that confusion was then like dancers frenzied in a fog; and now, now in this strange vampire nature, I felt a profound sadness. But I did not brood over this. Let me not give you that impression, for brooding would have been to me the most terrible waste; but rather I looked around me at all the mortals that I knew and saw all life as precious, condemning all fruitless guilt and passion that would let it slip through the fingers like sand.”

“I write you from a miss A train station and a farewell I write from a seashell The wave, the trace of its kiss I write you from a space A bud, under the light of spring I write you from a ruin This red flower, in my chest I write you to say a silence (The world is just an appearance) I write you from the shadow From oblivion, you remember? I write you from a misty window Your name, of breath and letters I write you from my soul This fire, and this scream I write you to talk about me This emptiness, embraced between your arms -and for all that is missing Another one will be saying.”

“The dead are immune from our prison of Time. The distance between the living and dead may be vast, but the space of Time the dead experience when they are reunited with their loved ones is only paper-thin.”

“It doesn’t knock. Doesn’t bloom like it used to. Just shows up in the way someone remembers how you take your tea. In a song that doesn’t ache anymore. It slips between the cracks of the day in the quiet of forgotten habits, in hands that don’t flinch when reaching for yours. Love returns slowly. In mismatched mugs, and the softness of being asked if you’ve slept. In laughter that feels like rinsed linen clean, familiar, light. It’s a slow thing, like the light that finds its way through closed blinds.”

“Some days, the light falls strangely across the floor, and I almost believe it's trying to speak telling me about the versions of myself I left behind. The girl who thought love was a folded paper note; the boy I once called home but forgot how to find; the promises we buried in the mouths of wilted flowers. I walk slower now.”

“You learn to tuck it into your coat pocket. Like lint. Like keys. It follows you to grocery stores and funerals and lazy sunday afternoons. Some days it’s light, like a paper cut. Some days it eats your breath. But no one notices. You laugh anyway. You pour coffee. You say “I’m fine” because explaining it feels like bleeding for no reason. Grief, when invisible, grows teeth.”

“There is a version of me on a bench that doesn’t exist, beside someone who never arrived, hands folded like questions without answers. We do not speak. Still, the silence grows roots between us. The kind that twist around ankles, that make it hard to stand and leave. I do not know their name, only that I’ve mourned them like I mourn cities I’ve never seen with a longing that makes no sense and still doesn’t stop. Somewhere in the unlived life, we are laughing. Here, I just keep glancing sideways at the absence that fits too well into the shape of a stranger.”

“I miss her the girl who wore too much hope and not enough armour. Who danced barefoot on sharp things because she believed pain was proof of living. I see her in old photos, smiling like she didn’t know what was coming. 'Sometimes I wish I could go back. Sometimes I’m glad I can’t.' Some versions of you have to die so you can breathe.”