Quotes About Emotion

your frustration is due to unfulfilled desire.

Anything that you accept as true and believe in will be accepted by your subconscious mind, and brought into your life as a condition, experience, or event. Ideas are conveyed to the subconscious mind through feeling.

Any idea that is emotionalized or felt as true will be accepted by your subconscious mind.

Love is an emotional attachment. Unless you love your work or profession, you cannot be a true success. Love always magnifies and multiplies.

Of course not! I remember the pain, but I don't feel it any longer.

Memory is never pure. And recollection is always coloured by the life lived since

What really makes us is beyond grasping. It's way beyond knowing. We give in to love... because it gives us some sense of what is unknowable. Nothing else matters, not at the end.

Music is what I always turn to when I'm feeling a certain way. It's my reason for everything.

She's out from my life, I don't know whether to laugh or cry

Why is it that all men who have become outstanding in philosophy, statesmanship, poetry or the arts are melancholic

In a modern dictionary, the noun "melancholy" has two definitions. First, it means "thoughtful or gentle sadness.

Two things that matter to me. Emotional resonance and rocket launchers.

Love is for children. I owe him a debt.

Do you love me? What? Do you? I love you. I don't know if I trust you. Maybe you shouldn't do either. Maybe I'm the one who should decide!

Life's a show and we all play a part And when the music starts We open up our hearts

You think we're dancing? That's all we've ever done.

I am not made of steel. Rage. I...am made... of RAGE!!!!

These are the ice horses, horses who entered through your head, and then your heart, your beaten heart. These are the ones who loved you. They are the horses who have held you so close that you have become a part of them, an ice horse galloping into fire.

The Poem I Just Wrote The poem I just wrote is not real. And neither is the black horse who is grazing on my belly. And neither are the ghosts of old lovers who smile at me from the jukebox.

She had some horses. She had some horses she loved. She had some horses she hated. These were the same horses.

Each human is a complex, contradictory story. Some stories within us have been unfolding for years, others are trembling with fresh life as they peek above the horizon. Each is a zigzag of emotional design and ancestral architecture. All the stories in the earth's mind are connected.

But your half-grin is the only image that comes clear. All the words lead to that

The pervasive rhythm of her mother's heartbeat is a ghostly track that follows her.

Memories are strange things. Without being something I can hold in my hand, they wield a beguiling power over me. Like a mirage in the noontime heat of summer they dance before my inner eyes and beckon me to find water where there is no water.