Jasmine Warga Quotes

Maybe we all have darkness inside of us and some of us are better at dealing with it than others.

Anyone who has actually been that sad can tell you that there's nothing beautiful or literary or mysterious about depression.

You're like a grey sky. You're beautiful, even though you don't want to be.

I will be stronger than my sadness.

Sometimes I wonder if my heart is like a black hole--it's so dense that there's no room for light, but that doesn't mean it can't still suck me in.

I wonder if that's how darkness wins, by convincing us to trap it inside ourselves, instead of emptying it out. I don't want it to win.

Depression is like a heaviness that you can’t ever escape. It crushes down on you, making even the smallest things like tying your shoes or chewing on toast seem like a twenty-mile hike uphill. Depression is a part of you; it’s in your bones and your blood.

It’s funny how once you like someone, even the unattractive things they do somehow become endearing.

It's like your sadness is so deep and overwhelming that you're worried it will drown everyone else in your life if you let them too close to it.

I wish I could draw you how I see you. I'd draw a boy with the most magnetic smile, and the kindest hands, and eyes that are gloomy, but can sometimes be bright. I'd draw a boy who deserves to see the ocean.

Life can seem awful and unfixable until the universe shifts a little and the observation point is altered, and then suddenly, everything seems more bearable.

I once read in my physics book that the universe begs to be observed, that energy travels and transfers when people pay attention. Maybe that's what love really boils down to--having someone who cares enough to pay attention so that you're encouraged to travel and transfer, to make your potential energy spark into kinetic energy.

..because never in my life have I ever been picked when there was another alternative.

He was fucking sad. That's it. That's the point. He knows life is never going to get any different for him. That there's no fixing him. It's always going to be the same monotonous depressing bullshit. Boring, sad, boring, sad. He just wants it to be over.

You know, Zellie, there are enough broken things in the world. You shouldn't go around breaking things just for the fun of it.

I like other people's words. They fill me up.

Maybe the sadness comes just before the insanity

He’s no longer the person I want to die with; he’s the person I want to be alive with.

Something inside me clicks. It's like I've spent my whole life fiddling with a complicated combination only to discover I was toying with the wrong lock.

And this time, I can feel my hand. I can feel everything. And I want to keep feeling everything. Even the painful, awful, terrible things. Because feeling things is what lets us know that we’re alive. And I want to be alive.

I don't like songs about wanting things. I like songs about letting go, saying goodbye.

I spend a lot of time wondering what dying feels like. What dying sounds like. If I’ll burst like those notes, let out my last cries of pain, and then go silent forever. Or maybe I’ll turn into a shadowy static that’s barely there, if you just listen hard enough.

I bet if you cut open my stomach, the black slug of depression would slide out.

I wish gravity would go away and just let us all be a big mess.

He knows what he'll find if he digs deeper. there's no rush to unpack my insides. he understands there is nothing special about emptiness, nothing interesting about depression.

There is an Arabic proverb that says: She makes you feel like a loaf of freshly baked bread. It is said about the nicest kindest people. The type of people who help you rise.

I think he's looking for comfort, but I don't have any to give.

I don't know how to describe it, but the more I stare at him, the more I see his grief wrapped around him like shackles he can never take off.

What people never understand is that depression isn't about the outside; it's about the inside. Something inside me is wrong. Sure, there are things in my life that make me feel alone, but nothing makes me feel more isolated and terrified than my own voice in my head.

Hoping, I’m starting to think, might be the bravest thing a person can do.

What people never understand is that depression isn't about the outside; it's about the inside. Something inside me is wrong. Sure, there are things in my life that make me feel alone, but nothing makes me feel more isolated and terrified than my own voice inside my head.

What people never understand is that depression isn't about the outside; it's about the inside.

In these moments, it always feels like my skin is too thin, like everyone can see right inside me, can see my empty and dark insides.

Sometimes it takes watching someone else observe how you live to realize exactly how you live.

Depression is like a heaviness that you can’t ever escape. It crushes down on you, making even the smallest things like tying your shoes or chewing on toast seem like a twenty-mile hike uphill. Depression is a part of you; it’s in your bones and your blood. If I know anything about it, this is what I know: It’s impossible to escape.

Because loving you saved me. It's made me see myself differently, see the world differently. I owe you everything for that.

He squeezes my hand so tight, I can't feel it anymore. I wish someone would do that to my heart.

One spark can change everything.

We're suicidal, not innumerate.

I can't wait until they don't have me here anymore.

I wonder if it is exhausting to be a tree. To lose something, year after year, only to trust that it will someday grow back" -Jude

You’re like a gray sky. You’re beautiful, even though you don’t want to be.

Everything used to seem so final, inevitable, predestined. But now I'm starting to believe that life may have more surprises in store than I ever realized. Maybe it's all relative, not just light and time like Einstein theorized, but everything. Like life can seem awful and unfixable until the universe shifts a little and the observation point is altered, and then suddenly, everything seems more bearable.

FrozenRobot of all people should know that there is nothing beautiful or endearing or glamorous about sadness. Sadness is only ugly, and anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t get it.

I’m not asking you to live for me. Even though that would be nice because I’m in love with you. And yeah, yeah, you can tell me I’m misusing that word, but I don’t care. That’s how I feel. But this isn’t even about me, or how I feel about you. I want you to live for you because I know there’s so much more waiting for you. There’s so much more for you to discover and experience. And you deserve it, you might not think you do, but you do. I’m here to tell you that you deserve it. And I know I sound cheesy as hell. Believe me, six weeks ago, I would’ve slapped myself for saying shit like this, but knowing you... Knowing you has helped me see things differently. See myself differently. And all I want is for you to see yourself the way that I do.

He can't make me love him when he's going to leave me. When he wants to leave me. When he knows this is the end.

Don’t you ever think about that? What if this isn’t the end and we just go on to a place even worse than this one?

Lucky. I am learning how to say it over and over again in English. I am learning how it tastes— sweet with promise and bitter with responsibility.

Just like I am no longer a girl. I am a Middle Eastern girl. A Syrian girl. A Muslim girl. Americans love labels. They help them know what to expect. Sometimes, though, I think labels stop them from thinking.

I cover my head not because I am ashamed forced or hiding. But because I am proud and want to seen as I am.

Do you believe in other universes? Do you think there's another dimension where we're happy?

My change of heart isn't about flaking out; it's about fighting back.

No. I think you are crazy in completely different way. In a beautiful way.

But just because it's cowardly doesn't guarantee it's going to be easy.

For too long, I’ve made my past my future, afraid to imagine anything else. And I acted like that—static—afraid of my own kinetic energy. Maybe it’s time to start imagining, maybe it’s time to be in motion. Maybe it’s time for me to fight back against the sadness inside of me.

Too much sunshine makes a desert.

Yes, I'm broken. And yes, he's broken. But the more we talk about it, the more we share our sadness, the more I start to believe that there could be a chance to fix us, a chance that we could save each other.

There’s something poetic about the fact that the first boy to ever ask for my number is the same boy I’m going to die with.

Everything is subjective in the human mind. Our emotions, our opinions, they're all relative. It all depends on perspective.

My body is an efficient happy-thought-killing machine.

Guidance counselors always love to say, 'Just think positively,' but that's impossible when you have this thing inside of you, strangling every ounce of happiness you can muster. My body is an efficient happy-though-killing machine.

It's like your sadness is so deep and overwhelming that you're worried it will drown everyone else on your life if you let them too close to it.

Mama says the word cake like it's just an ordinary food which is strange since everyone knows that cakes are made of magic.

And maybe the black slug will always live inside of me. Maybe I'll always have bad days where the heaviness seems unbearable. But as cheesy as it sounds, maybe the good days will make it worth getting through the bad ones.

I've been thinking a lot aboit the energy of the universe. And if energy can't ever be created or destroyed, only transferred, what do you think happens to people's energy once they die?

I mean, you just don't seem like a big fan of words yourself. So I thought you'd appreciate the lack of lyrics.

Sometimes talking to Mama reminds me of a feather duster brushing dirt away from a mirror. She doesn't give you anything new, but she helps you better see what is already there.

I have learned that sometimes the simplest things are the hardest things to say. That sometimes there is no word for what you feel, no word in any language.

You didn’t want to, I know you didn’t. And I didn’t want you to. I care about you too much to watch you die. I want you to live, Aysel. So I did it alone because I wanted to save you.

Maybe all anyone ever needs is for someone to notice them, to observe them.

My teacher, Mrs. Marks, makes this big production out of trying to decode what the poets were trying to say. From my perspective, it's pretty clear what they were saying: I'm depressed and I want to die. It's painful to watch all my classmates tear apart each line, looking for the significance/ There's no significance. Anyone who has actually been that sad can tell you that there's nothing beautiful or literary or mysterious about depression.

With my dad, you always had to tread lightly, like you were walking on icy pavement–it was so fun when you were gliding, but it was very easy to slip.

Sometimes I wonder if my heart is like a black hole—it’s so dense that there’s no room for light, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still suck me in.

The two of them fitting, interlocking, like mothers and daughters are supposed to. Fitting in a way that I never have. My edges have always been too sharp, my grooves too deep.

I'm like a grenade made of ceramic -solid and dense and cold- but still fragile.

I know it’s all in my head, but some feelings are harder to shake than others.

Be careful," he says. "Why?" I'm not thinking about being careful. I'm thinking about one last push, of letting go, of flying, and of falling. "You aren't allowed to die without me," he whispers.

We all want to believe that every day is different, that every day we change, but really, it seems that certain things are coded into us from the very beginning.

I don't understand how someone who's not in your life anymore can make all the difference.

I can feel everything. And I want to keep feeling everything. Even the painful, awful, terrible things. Because feeling things is what lets us know that we're alive.

She sits down at the end of my bed again. "Who were you with? Do you have a boyfriend now or something?" I can't help but laugh. If I have a boyfriend, his name is Death. And I'm pretty sure Roman is in love with him too. It's a love triangle gone wrong.

the only time you get lucky is when you’re planning your suicide, it’s definitely time to go.

I once read in my physics book that the universe begs to be observed, that energy travels and transfers when people pay attention.

The problem is, March snow days are miracles. You can't live for miracles.

He's no longer the person I want to die with; he's the person I want to be alive with.

I want to understand. I like understanding you. It's been a long time since I related to someone else, but I think I get you.

I want women like Aunt Michelle to understand that it is not only women who look like them are free who think and care about other women.

You seemed lost and found at the same time. And that's how I usually feel too.

I will be stronger than my sadness

I don't like the idea of other people poring over my secrets. I don't even know if I have any secrets.

I start to daydream about gravity. Sometimes I wonder if gravity is the problem. It keeps us all grounded, gives us this false sense of stability when really we're just all bodies in motion. Gravity keeps us from floating up into space, it keeps us from involuntarily crashing into one another. It saves the human race from being a big hot mess. I wish gravity would go away and just let us all be a big mess.

Maybe he’s the type of person who turns his lies into truths in his head.

I guess pretty much everything in life is about the perception of the observer. That maybe time just moves the quickest at the end.

Hoping, I’m starting to think, might be the bravest thing a person can do.

You're you. You get it. You get all of it. And you're sad like me, and as screwed up as that is, it's beautiful." He reaches over and brushes his hand across my face, touching my hair. "You're like a grey sky. You're a beautiful, even though you don't want to be.

And no one wants to be noticed because of something like that; it’s like being an invasive species that no one pays any attention to until you’ve strangled and ruined all the beautiful native plants. The

But in the end it doesn't matter what Roman wants to do. I'm beginning to learn that this is the exhilarating and puzzling and, frankly, the frustrating thing about love. Things that matter to the other person start to seem intriguing, even if they are actually quite trite when you really think about them.

This may sound weird, but there are certain songs, like really great songs---you don't just listen to them, you know? They make you feel like they're listening back. Like the person who wrote the song heard you. Music makes you feel less alone in that way. It's proof that someone out there has felt the exact same way you do and they've managed to capture it in this perfect blend of words and sound.

Anyone who has actually been that sad can tell you that there's nothing beautiful or literary or mysterious about depression. Depression is like a heaviness that you can't ever escape. It crushes down on you, making even the smallest things like tying your shoes or chewing on toast seem like a twenty-mile hike uphill. Depression is a part of you; it's in your bones and your blood.

I wonder what it will feel like when all the lights go off and everything is quiet forever. I don't know if it will be painful, if in those last moments I'll be scared, but all I can hope is that it will be over fast. That it will be peaceful. That it will be permanent.