Miguel Syjuco Quotes

What was wrong with me? I had a decent life. I was healthy. I wasn't starving or maimed by a land mine or orphaned. Yet somehow, it wasn't enough. I had a hole in me, and everything I took for granted slipped through it like sand. I felt like I had swallowed yeast, like whatever evil was festering inside me had doubled in size.

Suffering is getting what you do not want while wanting what you do not get.

I can't get no satisfaction.

Everything is vain and tortures the spirit instead of calming and satisfying it.

What I do is spend too much time thinking. Most of the time I just walk around annoyed. Would I describe myself as relatively happy, I suppose, but society gets to me. And the people that have mastered life seem to not care, and then they die, and then the grenade goes off.

I wasn't unhappy, but I was a little like: 'Is this it? Really?' I was thirsty.

Sometimes I don't understand why I'm sitting here.

The man who is dissatisfied with himself, what can he do?

I just wanted to jump out of my body sometimes and be someone else.

It is ordained that to the ambitious, who derive no satisfaction from the gifts of life and the beauty of the world, life shall be a cause of suffering, and they shall possess neither the profit nor the beauty of the world.

I want so much that is not here and do not know where to go.

I can't wait to get out of the house. I can't wait to get out of here. I've been telling myself this all week. The 'getting out of here' part is unspecified, though. Maybe I simply want to get away from life

Wanting more is just a recipe for heartache.

We have produced a world of contented bodies and discontented minds.

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o’clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.

I lie on the floor, washed by nothing and hanging on. I cry at night. I am afraid of hearing voices, or a voice. I have come to the edge, of the land. I could get pushed over.

Found myself screaming in a hotel room. I didn't want to self-destruct.

Because we are all poets or babies in the middle of the night, struggling with being.

Would you please tell me what you are thinking? Before I go mad?

The want of a thing is perplexing enough, but the possession of it, is intolerable.

I don't know as I am fit for anything and I have thought that I could wish to die young and let the remembrance of me and my faults perish in the grave rather than live, as I fear I do, a trouble to everyone.... Sometimes I could not sleep and have groaned and cried till midnight.

This Cruel Age has deflected me.

God, I'm glad I'm not me.

All I want is a little more than I'll ever get.

The distance between where I am and where I want to be seems impossibly large.