Best 2955 quotes in «sadness quotes» category

WHILE THE WORLD'S ASLEEP, ANGELS REFUSE TO SLEEP!

While you are laughing madly, There is someone crying inside you

WHO AM I? I have seven heavenly panels Leading up to a pointed sphere I’m multidimensional like a crystal And my center is never clear. I’m an inventor and pioneer. A mentor to my peers. But I'm not as sound as my shell reveals, Because I’m tormented by my fears - That may appear to be grounded But my insides are filled with tears. And the sadness is well-founded, From years and years Of traumatic experiences Compounded In the most demented Atmospheres. I talk but feel like nobody hears. Has reason disappeared? And, God, are you near? This is Giza’s 7th light force And I'm asking you to interfere. I can no longer walk amongst the blind and dead With open eyes and ears. I’m trying to maintain my sanity And to straighten up my veneer As I roll amongst the growing calamities Flowing on Earth’s severely trashed Frontier. Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun (2010)

Who am I? They often tell me I would step from my cell's confinement calmly, cheerfully, firmly, like a squire from his country-house. Who am I? They often tell me I would talk to my warden freely and friendly and clearly, as though it were mine to command. Who am I? They also tell me I would bear the days of misfortune equably, smilingly, proudly, like one accustomed to win. Am I then really all that which other men tell of, or am I only what I know of myself, restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage, struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat, yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds, thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness, trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation, tossing in expectation of great events, powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance, weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making, faint and ready to say farewell to it all. Who am I? This or the other? Am I one person today, and tomorrow another? Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others, and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling? Or is something within me still like a beaten army, fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved? Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine. Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!

Whimsy is the answer to tears.

Who knew, Lizzy thought, the finite amount of nights in her life where she would sleep with her hand around a trusted body. That trusted hers. It wouldn't be a lot, anyway, would it.

Who knows if you’re alive anymore, but better yet, who knows if I’m even alive anymore?

Who hasn't walked through a life of small tragedies?

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded and loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet – for me, anyway – all that’s worth living for lies in that charm A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are.

Why are doors more difficult to open as if some sadness were leaning against them? Why do windows darken and trees bend when there is no wind? You call that occasional roar the roar of a plane and I imagine a time when I might have believed that. But now the darkness has been going on for too long, and I have accustomed myself to the pleasure of thinking that soon there will be no reason to hold on in this place where rocks are like water and it’s so difficult to find something solid to hold on to.

Why did I always end up loving the person who hurt me the most? Why was love so cruel?

Why did you revive me?” Alecto repeated. “Well… uh, well….” Mandy hesitated, her voice full of sudden misery. “They say there are five stages of grief, you know… five stages. denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Not in any particular order. Anyhow, I denied your death, I was angry about it, I bargained with Mearth to try and get her to un-bury your site and I was depressed about the whole ordeal. One thing I just froze up on though was acceptance. I just couldn’t accept your death. It was really cruel the way you died, and I missed you so much… Mearth, my parents, the cops, Dr. Pottie, they all thought I was crazy. When people think you’re crazy, that label automatically dehumanizes you, because people can use it to discredit everything you say with, “oh, pay no mind to her, she’s just this crazy lunatic with a dead imaginary friend.” I just wanted to do something, anything to make it all go away, and I decided that I wanted to revive you.

Why had he wanted to be rich, or to feel rich? Was he an unhappy mouse before? Didn't he see the King himself often looking sad? Was anyone completely happy?

Why’d you want to kill yourself? Didn’t you feel anything, or didn’t it hurt you?” Mandy questioned, looking puzzled. “Yes, I suppose it did, … it was strange, it was sharp, that’s all I can think of to describe it… and cold, but not cold like ice, more like… I don’t know, like something much worse, something horrible… and it seemed like the ground was falling upwards, becoming the sky… for a moment it made me consider that it was just a dream, that I was on some sort of drug, and then I remember being overjoyed to see the sky was still above me, then just really sad, really tired… and then I don’t remember much else about it,” Alecto told her, glaring straight ahead at the sky with narrowed eyes. “I don’t mind, I’m not supposed to mind, anyway. Mearth already told me that eventually I would want to be dead, that it was inevitable… still, I sometimes wish that I could have done something good for other people in my life, it might have made up for all the bad stuff I’ve done.

Why it is that life can change so quickly?" "How it's possible for a heart to stop beating so suddenly, instantly breaking all the hearts that were ever connected to it? But the truth is there is no sense in what happened to Jarrod. None that I can see. I wish I had a better answer, but I don't.

Why is it that my heart hurts for that one miracle that did not happen?

Why shine, when there's nothing to shine on?

Why should you want to exclude from your life all unsettling, all pain, all depression of spirit, when you don’t know what work it is these states are performing within you?

Why weren’t you beautiful? That would’ve solved everything.’ ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

Why wait to forgive and let go only after you have sufficiently wallowed in your despair? Why not forgive and let go now?

Willing or not, we are all hostages of the joy of which we deprive ourselves. Here springs love’s pre-eternal sadness.

Will this pain leave as quickly as you did?

Winter’s come and I’m miserable. I hate depression. This self-pity. I’m rather drowning in it. We always get posh when we’re miserable. I’m rather empty. Looking outside, the morning is drowning in rain. Is my mind so easily dictated by the weather? What am I, a plant? I have legs to move me inside. Feet to dance. A voice to sing. That tree isn’t moping about. Although, if you don’t have a mind to mope with, you’ll hardly mope in the first place. But all mindful beings mope. Even that tabby cat huddled under the neighbour’s car looks miserable.

Wisdom cannot be bought from the walmart, it can only come from the Holy Spirit of God.

Wisdom is knowing the right thing to do and doing it at the right time to get the desired result. It is also the correct application of knowledge.

Wisdom is the mother of solutions. You cannot upgrade in wisdom and lack solutions and you cannot have a wisdom and be stranded in any challenge you face.

With Deep Hurt comes Empathy

Within sadness lives a happiness deeper than any pain.

without room for improvement, where would we have our purpose, if I had all that I wanted, I would have to lose increments to give myself the purpose to obtain again, without goals, without the challenge what are they? Maybe rising to meet the maintenance, learning new things, stepping out of comfort zones, accomplishing new goals, facing new challenges is a part of what happiness is about... others deserve their right to live inalienably, but i feel like I deserve my right to suffer.

With you in my life I felt like I could conquer anything. It was as if I was on top of the world and even the stars themselves were just within my grasp. But without you …. even getting through the day is hard.

With this man I will never want. With this man I will never be sad again.

Women share their sadness, thought Edith. Their joy they like to show off to one another. Victory, triumph over the odds, calls for an audience. And that air of bustle and exigence sometimes affected by the sexually loquacious - that is for the benefit of other women. No solidarity then.

Women think that they can make sad things go away by knowing the reason that they happened.

Without you discovering your true picture, it will be hard to have a glorious future. It is the discovery of what you have inside and the pursuit of it that can guarantee a glorious future

Worst thing was I said I am fine and you believed me

Wounds may heal Bad memories may fade away And some names may be forgotten But the way you make people feel about themselves lasts forever" And forever more …

Wow. Forty, getting divorced, and out of a job. It's like you're the poster girl for sadness.

Worry makes you weaker, regret makes you sadder, hate makes you angrier, but hope makes you stronger, and love makes you happier.

Yes, be patient with me. My heart is heavy.

Yes, looking through the eyes of literature we may talk about the beauty of sadness! But in the eyes of truth, sadness is just saddening; there is no beauty there, only a touching desperation!

Wyn eal gedreas. Isso é parte de outro poema que às vezes ouço ser cantado no meu castelo. É um poema triste, e portanto um poema verdadeiro. Wyrd bið ful ãræd, diz ele. O destino é inexorável. E wyn eal gedreas. Toda alegria morreu.

Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud, but I walked numbly through the park, round and round, 40 times for 4 hours just wanting to make it through the day. There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got through and the sky was so blue I couldn’t look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories, but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desk tick tick tick me not making a sound and some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind, but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine. This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely ways but you can not let it. I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use. the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness, thinking it will help but it only feeds the fire and I don't want to hurt myself anymore. I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me—little me. From nowhere at all. And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again. It will always be spring again. And there will always be a new day.

Yes you have returned And things are as they were But this you cannot hide, A part of you has died.

Yes, silence is painful, but if you endure it, you will hear the cadence of the entire universe.

Yo también estoy rota. Pienso mucho antes de dormir. Habito por largas temporadas espacios liminales. Tengo muchos más miedos de los que estoy dispuesta a admitir. Me duelen las rodillas, los pies, la espalda. Sobre todo me duele la espalda.

You are a most effective killer, Michel. Is it true you wept like a child when they killed your sister? That you cried out in agony as if the sword had pierced your own heart? Such compassion. Does your handiwork not bring you to tears as well?

Y hay que ver, esos libros sobre el duelo son una mierda, todos iguales, una porquería total al cien por cien.

You are alone, So alone, You speak back to silence. People call it loneliness, You call it solitude, Different words, Meaning the same pain.

You are sorrow. You exist, even if joy is present. You’re not like them. You’re not like any other emotion. Hate and fear come and go, but you exist even when the breeze is clear of sadness. You are permanent and needed.