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493 quotes
Poverty of spirit is a far more devastating condition than poverty of purse.
Regret is a heavy cloak, woven from the threads of opportunities missed.
Sometimes, survival isn't about strength, but about how well you can hide the broken pieces.
Guilt is a heavy chain, forged in the fires of what could have been.
Regret is a heavy chain, forged in the fires of inaction.
Hope is a dangerous thing, but despair is a prison.
A closed heart is like a locked room; filled with treasures unseen and warmth unshared.
Don't mistake silence for absence. Sometimes, the loudest screams are unheard.
Hope is a dangerous thing. But sometimes, it's all we have left to hold onto.
Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us. And sometimes, they win.
Even in the grandest of mansions, shadows linger where joy is absent.
Regret is a ghost that haunts the corridors of our past, forever whispering 'what if'.
Regret is a heavy cloak, woven from threads of missed opportunities.
Regret is a ghost that revisits the feast, long after the plates are cleared.
True horror isn't jump scares; it's the slow, creeping realization of what's truly lost.
The echoes of laughter are often the only solace in the halls of memory.
The past is a phantom, forever haunting the halls of memory.
The heart asks first for joy, then settles for mere absence of pain.
The most chilling echoes are not those heard, but those felt within the soul.
I am a collection of fragments, desperately trying to piece myself back together.
The heart, a shadowed chamber, echoes with the whispers of what might have been.
The world is a stage set for a tragedy, and we are all merely players improvising our lines.
Memory, a fragile vessel, carrying oceans of yesterdays.
Grief is a garden, overgrown, where memories bloom and wounds are sown.
Hope is a feathered thing, but sometimes, clipped of wings.
The past is a haunting melody, forever playing in the corridors of the mind.
Despair is but a canvas on which hope paints its darkest masterpieces.
To comprehend a Woe – it visits us – in Palaces of Quiet.
Madness is but a heightened sense of reality, a truth too terrible to bear.
The deeper the sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
The ache of unfulfilled potential is a constant companion.
Grief is a relentless tide, washing away the shores of what we once knew.
Happiness is a fleeting visitor, always threatening to pack its bags and leave.
The world is a stage, yes, but some of us are trapped behind the curtain, forever fumbling with the props.
The world is a stage, yes, but some of us are backstage, forever fumbling with the props.
The world is wide, yet the heart finds only its own echo.
The future is a blank canvas, and I, a painter armed with only shades of gray.
The heart, a shadowed clock, ticks with a rhythm only sorrow understands.
Beauty, like a fleeting dream, vanishes with the dawn of harsh reality.
Doubt is a raven perched upon the soul, forever whispering of what could be lost.