“ Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. And intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you’ll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.”—Janet Fitch, White Oleander
“Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I’m gazing at a distant star.
It’s dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago.
Maybe the star doesn’t even exist any more.
Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.”—Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun
“I sit and I think about everything and everyone, and then nothing at all. Like a child’s body freezes when shadows dance across a dark room, I am still. Do my everythings, my nothings, or my somethings think of me? In the midst of their daily routines do I dance across their chaotic minds? Then I wonder, if people weren’t afraid of being read into…if we felt like we could say to someone, “You crossed my mind today, like you do everyday because I love you and I miss you…” without it having to mean something more than just that…would we tell people more often that they are thought of? I wish things could be so simple. I wish sometimes that it were easier to love everyone without hurting anyone because people should always know that they are thought of…remembered…loved.”—Carma Bland, Midnight Confessions Journal
“The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him… a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create — so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.”—Pearl S. Buck
“I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was - I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.”—On the Road by Jack Kerouac
“Cautiously, I allowed myself to feel good at times. I found moments of peace in cheap rooms just staring at the knobs of some dresser or listening to the rain in the dark. The less I needed, the better I felt.”— Charles Bukowski, Let it Enfold You
“I remember riding in a taxi one afternoon between very tall buildings under a mauve and rosy sky; I began to bawl because I had everything I wanted and knew I would never be so happy again.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald “My Lost City”