Dying Quotes - Page 5

​"If I was afraid of dying, I couldn't do half the shit I do." I told him.

I am afraid because I can so clearly foresee my own life rotting away of itself, like a leaf that rots without falling, while I pursue my round of existence from day to day.

When I asked her what was the matter? answered, she didn't know; but she felt so afraid of dying!

[C]oncepts of dying in to a heaven or hell seem a good deal more political than spiritual. (124)

A glorious death would be in my
final breath to take before I die, to hear
one final time on my belovèd's mouth
the sound of her eternal sigh.

Give me the Black Death over a Victorian prude any day. At least the dying screw like it's their last day on earth."

Paradise Lot: GoneGodsWorld - Episode 1

Maybe that was why the French called orgasms “las petites morts”: because the things that bring us passion tend to slip past our defenses, to creep insidiously into every facet of our consciousnesses and kill us as ruthlessly, and efficiently, as any drug.

Life and death lived inside each other. That's what occured to me. Death was inside all of us, waiting for warmer nights, a compromised system, a beetle, as in the now dying black timber on the mountains.

Tell Hugh," she whispered.
Tell Hugh your freaking self! He's right here! And you're not going anywhere.

Don't risk your life for those that doesn't love your life, lest you end up in regrets if not death.

The truth is we're all dying, the lie is we're all living.

The only dream worth having, I told her, is to dream that you will live while you're alive and die only when you're dead.

The Line welcomed rain and sun. Seeds germinated in mass graves, between skulls and femurs and broken pick handles, tendrils rose up alongside dog spikes and clavicles, thrust around teak sleepers and tibias, scapulas, vertebrae, fibulas and femurs.

Only if we live consciously, we can die consciously.

The circumstances of our lives are pieces of a larger scheme in the puzzle of life, and in His Perfect Wisdom, the pieces fit.

When we died, no one would know, and that fraction of a moment that was so important to who we were would be gone.

The desire to die was my one and only concern; to it I have sacrificed everything, even death.

I hate my left hand. I hate to look at it. I hate it when it stutters and trembles and reminds me that my identity is gone. But I look at it anyway; because it also reminds me that I'm going to find the boy who took everything away from me. I'm going to kill the boy who killed me, and when I kill him, I'm going to do it with my left hand.

The only way past the pain is through it. Pain, grief, anger, misery...they don't go away-they just increase and compound and get worse. You have to live through them, acknowledge them. You have to give your pain its due.

It's different when the person you love dies. There's an awful finality to death. But it is final. The end. And there's the funeral, family gatherings, grieving, all of those necessary rituals. And they help, believe me. When the object of your love just disappears, there's no way to deal with the grief and pain.