Best 2955 quotes in «sadness quotes» category

She put him out like the burning end of a midnight cigarett. She broke his heart. He spent his whole life trying to forget. We watched him drink his pain away a little at a time. But he never could get drunk enough to get her off his mind until the night. He put that bottle to his head and pulled the trigger. And finally drank away her memory. Life is short but this time it was bigger, Than the strength he had to get up off his knees. We found him with his face down in the pillow. With a note that said: I love her til' I die. And when we buried him beneath the willow, The angels sang a whiskey lullaby. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. The rumors flew, But nobody knew how much she blamed herself for years and years. She tried to hide the whiskey on her breath. She finally drank her pain away a little at a time, But she never could get drunk enough to get him off her mind until the night. She put that bottle to her head and pulled the trigger. And finally drank away his memory. Life is short but this time it was bigger, Than the strength she had to get up off her knees. We found her with her face down in the pillow. Clinging to his picture for dear life. We laid her next to him beneath the willow, While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la. La la la la la la la.

She remembered all too well how time had dragged without him, how she had shuffled about feeling waylaid, out of balance. How she could ever cope with his permanent absence?

She rode toward the sunset in her fathers worn down car. A breeze picked up strands of her hair through the open window while a cigarette burned between her lips. He told her stories of honey and milk as he replaced the grass with mud.

She resents the chipped paint of the table and the dingy closet they call a dressing room. (Dark City Lights)

She searched her mind for a single day when it had felt good to be alive. There must have been one, surely?

She simply stared at me with such a loving expression on her face, I felt like I was her foal. Indah reached her head as far as she could around me, to press me to her. I melted. How could I live without this horse? I wrapped my arms around her neck and let my tears flow.

She’s kept her love for him as alive as the summer they first met. In order to do this, she’s turned life away. Sometimes she subsists for days on water and air. Being the only known complex life-form to do this, she should have a species named after her. Once Uncle Julian told me how the sculptor and painter Alberto Giacometti said that sometimes just to paint a head you have to give up the whole figure. To paint a leaf, you have to sacrifice the whole landscape. It might seem like you’re limiting yourself at first, but after a while you realize that having a quarter-of-an-inch of something you have a better chance of holding on to a certain feeling of the universe than if you pretended to be doing the whole sky. My mother did not choose a leaf or a head. She chose my father. And to hold on to a certain feeling, she sacrificed the world.

She's going to keep up her public facade of stoicism and generosity and getting on with thungs. She knows she can do it, she can do the stiff upper lip thing. I will survive. But behind closed doors the going is rough. It's when she is alone that it hits her. And she is often alone, too often, she things no one should have to be alone as much as she is. It should have been me: her mind is a morass of old songs now, Errol Brown started it. It should have been me.

She's in trouble, but I envy her.

She shuffled with her head bowed, her dark eyes drifting to avoid contact, and she screamed in bed at night. (Dark City Lights)

She sinks. She sinks in holy sadness. Like an Ophelia in tears she sinks

She's known sadness. That's what it is. I only just thought that as I wrote it. She's known sadness, and it has made her kind.

She saw how the weight of his mistake, the affair, weighed down on him and he cried, brushing the tears on his cheeks away brusquely; his eyes rimmed with dark circles looked haunted.

She’s got to be a ghost. First of all, she’s just too beautiful. Her features are gorgeous, but it’s not only that. She’s so perfect I know she can’t be real. She’s like a person who stepped right out of a dream. The purity of her beauty gives me a feeling close to sadness –a very natural feeling, though one that only something extraordinary could produce.

She saw that he knew what loneliness was, that he understood why it might be raining inside a person even when the sun shone, that sadness needed no immediate cause.

She's sure, absolutely sure, that what she's waiting for will happen, just the way she wants it to; and I'm so uncertain, so fearful my dreams will end up forgotten somewhere, someday, like a piece of string and a paperclip lying in a dish.

She's too sad to be beautiful. No one that sad can still be beautiful.

She struggled with her sadness, but tried to conceal it, to divide it into smaller and smaller parts and scatter these in places she thought no one would find them. But often I did - with time I learned where to look - and tried to fit them together. It pained me that she felt she couldn't come to me with it, but I knew it would hurt her more to know that I'd uncovered what she hadn't intended for me to find. In some fundamental way I think she objected to being known. Or resented it even as she longed for it. It offended her sense of freedom. But it isn't possible to simply look upon a person one loves in tranquility, content to regard her in bafflement.

She thought of Henry and Diana on the stoop gazing at each other with the confusion and sadness of two puppies who have just stumbled into their first puddle and not yet come to understand what has happened to them and found that she wanted to lie extravagantly.

She takes another sip of her drink. She looks around the bar. I look at the fine muscles in her neck, at the two points of her clavicle. Her grief has not so much changed her as stripped her down, stripped her body and her face. Maybe she should do what I do. She could stand next to me and the students could draw our lines. I order another bourbon, count the count.

She turned her face into the pillow and let her tears drain into it, and felt that yet more was lost, when there was no witness to her sorrow.

She, the Queen of life. Perfectly sitting, lowering her eyelids and no emotions, allowing her junior making her long aging hair, creating a beautiful illusion for viewers, a perfect Sculpture of an Asian Queen. But nobody knows how much sadness is engulfing her, except her loyalties.

She thinks, briefly, that she has never felt so lonely in her life.

She touched her fingertip to his wet face and brought away a tear. Amazed, he did the same. He tasted this river his own eyes had rained. "It tastes of salt!" he exclaimed. "It tastes like the sea!" "Mine too!" she laughed through her own tears, and he touched and tasted hers as well. "It's as if humans kept a sign of the mother sea in ourselves, a secret token of grief or gladness.

She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.

She was a prism through with sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum

She was always tired, these days. She put on one of those smiles that wasn’t really a smile at all, and they went on.

She was a tragic beauty. Sadness had left its fingerprints all over her face.

She was doing just what it looked like she was doing, lying about, half-awake and half-asleep, passing the time and waiting for something to change. Because it seemed very clear to her, in those first few days, that what she felt was so intolerable that it couldn't possibly last, and if she did nothing to distract herself from it, she'd use it up, and then she'd be able to get up, and move about, and care once again about her duties to her people, about her constitutional obligations to dancing and singing and feasting and praising the movements of the stars. She didn't consider at all--she didn't dare to consider--that the sources of grief inside her might be inexhaustible.

She was just so sad. Her whole face hung with it, like sadness was her personal gravity.

She was completely alone in the world. There was no one at all for her. No one in the world who cared whether she lived or died. Sometimes the horror of that thought threatened to overwhelm her and plunge her down into a bottomless darkness from which there would be no return. If no one in the entire world cared about you, did you really exist at all?

She was sitting there in silence when I interrupted her glooming halo but she couldn’t feel my existence though. She didn’t cry, she didn’t scream, she didn’t even blame one single person for the shit they put her through. “I didn’t deserve this ...’ she said while chocking her trembling voice. And I stood there wondering how such few words could be full of so much darkness, disappointment, and brokenness that they ached me to the core...

She wept a river of tears holy water, sent to soften the sharp edges of sorrow a gentle hollowing out, carving new chambers in her heart a hallowed vessel for holding sacred, the tears of others...

Shhh,” Mr. Winston whispered into her hair. “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.” He said it over and over again, just as the boy had done when she was at her most helpless. He rocked her with each stanza of the hypnotic prayer, and she melted into his arms, letting him be her strength as she cried into his chest. “I couldn’t keep her,” she finally mustered, wiping her nose against his scratchy flannel. “Shhh…” he repeated. He kissed the top of her head and then stood. With surprising strength, the elderly man lifted her as if she weighed nothing, bringing her to the car. He opened the car door with one hand, sat her in the front seat, and then buckled her in like she was a child. Exhausted, Maddie didn’t fight him or try to do it on her own. She needed someone else to be in charge for a while. She needed to be taken care of.

She wears it so beautifully doesn’t she, her pain… Always smiling, always positive…. always happy to help… It’s like a garment perfectly tailored to fit the way she carries it… with a touch of grace… and the quietness of that sad smile…. All so you’d never know how heavy it really was.

She wished it were evening now, wished for the great relief of the calendar inking itself out, of day done and night coming, of ice cubes knocking about in a glass beneath the whisky spilling in, that fine brown affirmation of need.

She wouldn't even get the chance to say a proper goodbye. If he died before she returned, her last memory of him would be this one.

She wore his flower In her hair Scent of amber Sweetened the air Her dress was white Her feet bare He found heaven Waiting there She is alive In his painful sigh...

...shiny trinkets and frivolous spending make people forget what world they're living in.

should i tear my heart out now? everything i feel returns to you somehow

shit happens, miracles don't

Should we reason our way out of sadness ? But why, when reasoning requires effort ? And the sad man lacks the necessary energy to make any effort at all.

Show how you can get me back my childhood Do not keep reminding me of my past otherwise

Silence is the source of healing. When we bring things from within ourselves out into the light of awareness, a healing process happens. In the silence, we can let go of all anger, sadness, fear, loneliness and frustration.

Silence is a girls loudest cry

Simt tristetea pe care o raspandesc ochii mei mari deschisi in obscuritate. As dormi sa uit, as dormi.

Singing dissipates sorrow.

Six horses died in a tractor-trailer fire. There. That's the hard part. I wanted to tell you straight away so we could grieve together. So many sad things, that's just one on a long recent list that loops and elongates in the chest, in the diaphragm, in the alveoli. What is it they say, heartsick or downhearted? I picture a heart lying down on the floor of the torso, pulling up the blankets over its head, thinking the pain will go on forever (even though it won't). The heart is watching Lifetime movies and wishing, and missing all the good parts of her that she has forgotten. The heart is so tired of beating herself up, she wants to stop it still, but also she wants the blood to return, wants to bring in the thrill and wind of the ride, the fast pull of life driving underneath her. What the heart wants? The heart wants her horses back.

Sitting on my bed with all these things I used to love but not loving them anymore, I just wanted to set them on fire. That's when I knew I was never going to be all right again.

Skumjas ir tik savādas,kad tās uznāk, mēs esam gluži bezspēcīgi. Tās ir kā logs, kas pats no sevis atveras. Istabā kļūst auksti, un mums atliek vienīgi drebināties. Bet ar katru reizi logs atveras šaurāk un aizvien šaurāk, un tad kādu dienu mēs iedomājamies, kur gan tas palicis.