And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air. — Jenim Dibie
And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air. — Jenim Dibie
And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air. — Jenim Dibie
And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air. — Jenim Dibie
And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air. — Jenim Dibie
Download Customize

And on the days I couldn't breathe, I learned to paint air.

— Jenim Dibie
Pin Share Tweet Telegram
Topics
grief healing pain painting poetry words writer writing

More “Grief” Quotes

Your whole world ceases to exist and you're nothing but a shell of a person you once were. Your mom has dealt with it he — Nicole Williams, Crash
Bereavement is a darkness impenetrable to the imagination of the unbereaved — Iris Murdoch
If suddenly you do not exist,if suddenly you no longer live,I shall live on.I do not dare,I do not dare to write it,if y — Pablo Neruda
When other people are grieving, the newspaperman turns efficient. — Stieg Larsson, The Girl Who Played with Fire
I thought about how the past can become so small. An entire day, 24 separate, heavy hours, becomes the size of a tiny br — Kimberly Novosel, Loved
...nor can we know ahead of the fact the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the rele — Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
All the tears in the world can't bring back the dead or wash away your fears and grief. I want you to put up your chin a — Cynthia Wright, Silver Storm
You think when someone you love passes away, everything becomes clearer, that your priorities and perspectives align in — Rachael Wade, Love and Relativity
These days grief seems like walking on a frozen river; most of the time he feels safe enough, but there is always that d — David Nicholls, One Day
It is the heart that has been pierced that feels the most. — Jocelyn Murray
He was beneath the waves, a creature crawling the ocean bottom. — Doppo Kunikida, Five Stories
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 — Barbara Taylor Bradford, Three Weeks in Paris