It's not a confession if no one reads it. It's just an unshared secret.
Remember: courage, unused, diminishes. Commitment, unexercised, wanes. Love, unshared, dissipates.
People tell me there are a lot of guys like me, which doesn't explain why I'm lonely.
There's nowhere in New York to go and have your emotions to yourself. People just look the other way because every day people see someone crying on the subway!
There are never words for the strongest of our feelings. There is just the pain that we cannot share. Pain we must all feel alone.
A solitary, unused to speaking of what he sees and feels, has mental experiences which are at once more intense and less articulate than those of a gregarious man.
In youth our most bitter disappointments, our brightest hopes and ambitions, are known only to ourselves. Even our friendship and love we never fully share with another; there is something of every passion, in every situation, we conceal.
One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way.
One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul, and yet no one ever comes to sit by it.
I do not want to have feelings that are just for me that I cannot express to other people. That frustrates me.
There is always a part of our being into which those who are dearer to us far than our own lives are yet unable to enter.
Whatever we choose to imagine can be as private as we want it to be. Nobody knows what you're thinking or feeling unless you share it.
All the books on my shelves, when I would go to them to look for help with my anguish, they all just seemed so crass. They didn't get it. Those books don't understand. Nobody understands.
We're meant to be friends but you never tell me anything.
