Thousands have lived without love, not one without water
Greed is a bottomless pit which exhausts the person in an endless effort to satisfy the need without ever reaching satisfaction.
I didn't give myself enough love, so I was searching for it in other places, and it was a never ending struggle.
Is there not a terrible hollowness, mockery, want, craving, in that existence which is given away to others, for want of something of your own to bestow it on?
The desperation meeting the silence with its unmasked wish.
I lost my father was I 10 years old, and I always looked for a father. I missed my father very much.
I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond the daily life.
I wished to punish her for her intolerable stoicism, which made it impossible for me to ever be truly needed by her in the most profound ways a person can need another, a need that often goes by the name of love.
Desire is an attempt to feel the void.
He felt as if his heart had dried up. I needed her he thought. I needed someone like her to fill the void inside me. But I wasn’t able to fill the void inside her. Until the bitter end, the emptiness inside her was hers alone.
Maybe sadness was a kind of hunger, she thought. Maybe the two went together.
Eventually, it wasn't even your dad I wanted, just anybody. Anybody at all.
Imagine if you were the positive pole of a magnet, and you were told that under no circumstances were you allowed to touch that negative pole that was sucking you in like a black hole. Or if you crawled out of the desert and found a woman standing with a pitcher of ice water, but she held it out of your reach. Imagine jumping off a building, and then being told not to fall. That's what it feels like to want a drink.
If there were no poetry on any day in the world, poetry would be invented that day. For there would be an intolerable hunger.
I always thought I was going to be an artist. All I ever did was draw. I only ever turned to writing because I couldn't find somebody to write the kind of stuff I wanted to do. That just spiraled out of control.
I asked for bread, and I got a stone in the shape of a pedestal.
Panging is the kind of sharp pain you feel inside when you're reminded of some kind of unattended need or something that you've neglected.
I really feel something's missing if I'm not writing.
Until the missing story of ourselves is told, nothing besides told can suffice us: we shall go on quietly craving it.
Instead of satisfying me, the kisses have the opposite effect, of make my need greater. I thought I was something of an expert on hunger, but this is an entirely new kind.
I want - I want - I want - was all that she could think about - but just what this real want was she did not know.
If you don't have that memory of being loved, you are condemned to search the world for something to fill you up.
I know that I will never find my father in any other man who comes into my life, because it is a void in my life that can only be filled by him.
More than anything, the journal wanted. It wanted more than it could hold, more than words could describe, more than diagrams could illustrate. Longing burst from the pages, in every frantic line and every hectic sketch and every dark-printed definition. There was something pained and melancholy about it.
Desire then is the invasion of the whole self by the wish, which, as it invades, sets going more and more of the psychical processes; but at the same time, so long as it remains desire, does not succeed in getting possession of the self.
