Sometimes, I feel like I’m not solid. I’m hollow; there’s nothing behind my eyes. I’m a negative of a person. It is as if I never thought anything, never wrote anything, never felt anything. All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.
— Sylvia Plath (via sulkyselkie)
I wasn’t lonely.
I experienced no self-pity.
I was just caught up in a
life in which
I could ﬁnd no
— Charles Bukowski (via durianquotes)
Void is when there’s absolutely nothing there and the nothing is natural, a complete vacuum. But empty- with empty, you are aware of what is supposed to be there. Empty means something is missing.
— David Levithan, Every You, Every Me
I was hit head-on by a brutal loneliness. I felt dark and hollow. Abandoned, unnoticed, forgotten, I stood on the sidewalk, a nothing, a gatherer of dust. People hurried past me. And everyone who walked by was happier than I. I felt the old envy. I would have given anything to be one of them.
— Nicole Krauss
No matter where I go, I still end up me. What’s missing never changes. The scenery may change, but I’m still the same incomplete person. The same missing elements torture me with a hunger that I can never satisfy. I think that lack itself is as close as I’ll come to defining myself.
— Haruki Murakami
It was not the feeling of completeness I needed, but the feeling of not being empty
— Jonathan Safran Foer
I wonder which is preferable – to walk around all your life swollen up with your secrets until you burst from the pressure of them, or to have them sucked out of you, every paragraph, every sentence, every word for them, so at the end you’re depleted of all that was once as precious to you as hoarded gold, as close to you as your skin – everything that was of the deepest importance to you, everything that made you cringe and wish to conceal, everything that belonged to you alone – and must spend the rest of your days like an empty sack flapping in the wind, an empty sack branded with a bright fluorescent label so that everyone will know what sort of secrets used to be inside you?
— Margaret Atwood
I said nothing for a time, just ran my fingertips along the edge of the human-shaped emptiness that had been left inside me.
— Haruki Murakami (via lavandula)
Imagine that human existence is defined by an Ache: the Ache of our not being, each of us, the center of the universe; of our desires forever outnumbering our means of satisfying them.
— ― Jonathan Franzen, How to Be Alone
I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going–and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions.
— -Sylvia Plath