It's not enough to have lived; we should be determined to live for something. May I suggest that it be creating joy for others, sharing what we have for the betterment of personkind, bringing hope to the lost and love to the lonely.
These are frightening times...when she feels herself annointed by loneliness.
Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for.
...It is clear that we must embrace struggle. Every living thing
conforms to it. Everything in nature grows and struggles in its
own way, establishing its own identity, insisting on it at all cost,
against all resistance. We can be sure of very little, but the
need to court struggle is a surety that will not leave us. It is
good to be lonely, for being alone is not easy. The fact that
something is difficult must be one more reason to do it. To love
is also good, for love is difficult. For one human being to love
another is perhaps the most difficult task of all, the epitome, the
ultimate test. It is that striving for which all other striving
is merely preparation. For that reason young people -- who are
beginners in everything -- cannot yet love; they do not know how to
love. They must learn it.
There is no insurmountable solitude. All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are. And we must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence, in order to reach forth to the enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song - but in this dance or in this song there are fulfilled the most ancient rites of our conscience in the awareness of being human and of believing in a common destiny.
There is much suffering in the world - physical, material, mental. The suffering of some can be blamed on the greed of others. The material and physical suffering is suffering from hunger, from homelessness, from all kinds of diseases. But the greatest suffering is being lonely, feeling unloved, having no one. I have come more and more to realize that it is being unwanted that is the worst disease that any human being can ever experience.
The worst loneliness is not to be comfortable with yourself.
It's not enough to have lived. We should be determined to live for something. May I suggest that it be creating joy for others, sharing what we have for the betterment of personkind, bringing hope to the lost and love to the lonely.
Life is full of misery, loneliness, and suffering - and it's all over much too soon.
Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils.
Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed-and gazed-but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills; And dances with the daffodils.
We poets would die of loneliness but for women, and we choose our men friends that we may have somebody to talk about women with. Letter to Olivia Shakespeare, 1936
Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.
And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.
People are lonely because they build walls instead of bridges.
No, life may not be easy, it can be lonely. Full of people we think we know, but barely comprehend. Yet we must always remember: it's the challenges that define us best, and the obstacles that illuminate what we're truly capable of. We must welcome adversity and embrace struggle, and no matter what we get from life, never give less than 100 percent. Of course, at the end of every battle weary day, we fold ourselves into peaceful darkness and find comfort in those gentle words . . . good night.
There is no final solution to loneliness until you recognize that you need the resources which are in yourself to enpy, within limits, being alone being the kind of person that you like to be with, and reaching out to others, not in a grasping way, but in an attempt to be meaningful and loving and of service in their lives.
Nothing makes us more vulnerable than loneliness, except greed.
Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock. "Now they are all on their knees," An elder said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearth-side ease. We pictured the meek mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen, Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they were kneeling then. So fair a fancy few would weave In these years! yet, I feel If someone said on Christmas Eve, "Come; see the oxen kneel, In the lonely barton by yonder coomb Our childhood used to know," I should go with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so.
So lonely 't was, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.
In misery's darkest cavern known, His useful care was ever nigh Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan, And lonely want retir'd to die.
"I fly from pleasure," said the prince, "because pleasure has ceased to please; I am lonely because I am miserable, and am unwilling to cloud with my presence the happiness of others."
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.
I gave up on new poetry myself 30 years ago when most of it began to read like coded messages passing between lonely aliens in a hostile world.
Beauty is ever to the lonely mind A shadow fleeting; she is never plain. She is a visitor who leaves behind The gift of grief, the souvenir of pain.
