lonely - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The houses are paintings, cold in their rendered realism, the road between us a never ending expanse of burning black. Then at times the desperate call, only to run, only to hide... afraid of connection bringing need and an obligation to help. And so the roads get longer and the paintings merge on a horizon rapidly shrinking. All that remains are the trees, the birds, the flowers that bloom and my two feet on the Earth. All I feel is love from a universe away, enough to tingle fingertips and ignite my core. I once thought that loneliness and solitude were different things; yet if loneliness is a utter blackness, solitude is being alone in a beautiful garden. Solitude is when the pain remains, but one learns to let the joy of nature flood in, that natural love that belongs to us all. It's when we release ourselves to love and are reborn as those who remember God's name.
I am lonely but I have me. I am a person too. There are those surrounded by people and yet, because they surrendered their soul, they are truly alone. The truth is, unless you can connect to your true self, you cannot connect to anyone else. So though I look like the loser; I am closer to winning than most. I am still me. How many can say that?
The Kids- Spoken Word
We're the kids nobody knows
We're the kids nobody hears
We're the kids nobody listens too
We don't beat the same drum
We don't sound like the rest
We are not fueled by; greed, lust, and fame
We are fueled by; society's rejection, our rage, and our pain
Because we are not mindless slaves
Our lives don't conform
We are more than we seem
We are not just poor kids with a dream
We are the speakers for the kids words can't be freed
The kids like me, like you
That know the world is insane
And we are not afraid to phrase the truth even if we sound crazed
We are more than you know
We are more than you hear
We are more than you listen too
We are more than our rage
We are more than our pain
We are more than our dreams
And I promise you this is not a phase
These are the thoughts in our brains
That makes our hearts pulsate
That keeps us breathing
and fighting to stay alive
We are the kids nobody knows
We are the kids nobody hears
We are the kids nobody listens to.
I kept imagining the same thing over again, a paradise being taken apart at its will. The organization of an entire kingdom being ripped apart piece by piece. What is this place you ask? This place, it’s my mind. It’s my entire conscience being torn out of place, and being tortured until it bleeds out and gives up. Only here, I can’t give up; I’m not sure if I’m alive or dead, and I feel like I’ve been here for years. It’s probably been a few weeks since I’ve seen any natural light and I’m starting to actually want to go outside. Let’s just say that’s something that doesn’t happen often. I can’t imagine what would happen if someone were to shine a light in my eyes. Maybe it would be the only push I need. But this is purgatory. There is nothing here except me- the victim. And my brain- the murderer. The torturer. The sinner. Death. That’s all this is. That’s all I need. I feel like there is a hole in my chest holding me back from achieving my true goal- to not be alone.
Everyday after work, I lie down on my comfortable couch reading books and watching talk shows - no communication with friends or others. Loneliness brings life into another realm, quietness is the new beginning for humankind to think more and think from themselves. In the school jail, the crazy competitions don't give you the opportunity to think yourself, you have to pay careful attention to the teachers or else you will be shut down like someone who scored no goals on a hockey team. At least, that was the case for me. Now, I am free and can build my own thoughts and express myself in unique ways and ideas. Loneliness helped to create my own identity and it will continue to strengthen my inner self.
Lonely was once an abstract idea, an affliction of the old. I had Neal and he had me, each other's insurance policy on life, love and the hereafter. We were supposed to die close together with silver hair and wrinkles on our wrinkles, perhaps I'd have a few years without him, no more. But fate saw fit to take him last year for a reason that should take no man or beast in this day and age. First was the shock - denial, anger, despair... It takes so long to arrive at acceptance, the final stage the counsellors long to scrawl into their notes. It isn't much of a destination though. It's an empty train station, no people, no trains, nowhere to go. It's hearing and seeing with none of it mattering. It's the world carrying on with business as usual, but for you it can never be the same again. It's the inability to share your love and without sharing love it deflates to leave a hole in the chest...
She often shuffled around her cluttered apartment, her frame bent with age, with a watering can shaking in her withered hand. She would tip the water onto the already wet soil of the plants and talk to them kindly as if they were her children. Indeed, she had a plant for each member of her family and she cosseted them and sometimes asked for their opinions, listening carefully and then answering as if they had given her a considered reply. At her tea time she always sat near the phone that only ever rang with junk calls, just in case someone called, in case someone needed her. It was at one of these times that the nice man from Nigeria rang with some good news. He needed her, he needed her help very badly.
Without you I am a tree stuck forever in winter, bereft of leaves and shivering under a blanket of frost. My world is cold, my limbs empty of the life they once had. When you walked this earth I could never be alone no matter how near or far you were, but now that you are dead the loneliness remains no matter how close others are. I could take another lover and still my soul would remain barren. I used to think of loneliness as something that passed, like an abrupt and unwelcome wind, but this feeling stays with me as if it altered my DNA.
“After all loneliness doesn't scare me; it gives me time to grow stronger than I have ever been”
For thee long months the window has been my only connection to the outside world. Without it this house would feel like a tomb, already it's as quiet as a mausoleum. The phone doesn't ring and the door stays shut unless the home nurse is making her call, or my daughter stops by with the groceries. I want her to sit and talk but I have nothing to say that will interest her and she doesn't want to burden me with her worries about money, the kids and that good-for-nothing husband I told her not to marry. Sometimes I ask her to move some furniture or make some tea, anything to stop her going so fast. I see the frustration on her face and know I have lived long enough to be a burden. The rest of the day I stare through the rectangle of glass to the folks that walk by, the delivery trucks and the traffic that stands still much of the time. Once in a while I'll see a neighbour, but by the time I've pulled my walker over they're gone. So it's just me and the glass, clear or rain-splattered...
I was born into an upper middle classed home and the teaching began right after birth. I had the most stimulating toys money could buy and a moderately priced nanny to keep me amused. I loved her, I remember her still, but when the job ended she left and I never saw her again. School began, a little pressed uniform and a kindly teacher. We learned through songs and recited our alphabet. There were after-school clubs, then home to eat dinner while Mom and Dad made their evening phone calls. Each day blended into the next and the only thing my parents ever asked me was about my grades, not my feelings, not who I was. Then when the pressure intensified and I found I couldn't get the grades they demanded, the punishments began. A mark less than an A in any subject meant “privileges” revoked. Then I met Gregor.
Gregor got grades like they were gifts from above and said he had no intention of being anything his parents would approve of. He was like me, handed from “professional” to “professional” since birth, never feeling truly loved. But he took my hand and told me I didn't need to do anything to impress him, I didn't need to pass math to be his girl, but I was free to outshine him academically in every subject and he wouldn't mind a bit. “Exams are just hoops for the corporate world, it's how they select us, like sheep from a pen. Then we do their tricks for food and shelter until we're mutton and too old to dance in the sun. Dance with me, Olivia. I don't promise you riches, I don't promise you the suburban house and a picket fence. I plan to spend my life making and designing products for a greener world, I don't know if that will keep us comfortably or not. But I promise to love you faithfully for the rest of our lives, and I mean the kind of love that puts you before anyone else, the kind of love that would face down the devil himself to protect you. Will you come with me?”
I could drown in this air, suffocate in the chlorinated humidity that rises above the water. People move past, trapped in their own heads as I am in mine. Children laugh, tantrum, cry or whine. I see their parents react: placating, frustrated, sometimes warm. I could be on Mars or else invisible, but I'm neither. I'm right here, bare feet on the mopped white tile. Once I was here at this pool so early in the morning the surface was perfectly flat, glassy. Not now though, now it's choppy; the mosaics of the walls and the beach paraphernalia hanging form the rafters are reflected in tiny fragments of colour that remind me of the autumn to come in a few months. Somehow I wonder if those fall leaves will ever come. Each day draws out so long and thin that I am surprised when the sun finally sets.
My eyes fall to the surface once more. I want to be in that water, under it, gliding dolphin-like to the tiles below more than my next breath. The coolness will bring me to the present like nothing else. In those perfect moments I can forget the past, cease to analyze the future. I wont worry about who I am, who I will become, who I might never be. In its watery embrace there is only the present, nothing more. Underneath the surface I can escape the dull drag of gravity. It is as free as I've ever experienced in my seventeen years; nothing else comes close.
Sheila flicked through the dating websites, she didn't much care for their interests so long as they were muscular and tanned. After a time she sat back in her chair, casting her eye around her immaculate apartment, taping her new french polish on the dining table. She hadn't checked social media for at least five minutes, time to catch up. The wonderful thing about her online world was her ability to cut out the "happy couples" until they saw sense and separated. Alone was better, reliable, less messy. She wasn't lonely, she was liberated, independent and free. Her friends envied her lifestyle of boy-toys, make-up and high end fashions. She clicked "like" a few times and left a comment before returning to her "online shopping."
Without you the world goes by like a bad movie - exciting in all the wrong ways and lagging inbetween. I was never locked into my own head when you were here. It was like we drew the essence of one another from our skulls and combined in a way that is only meant for the gods. You were my elixir, I was your sunshine. Seasons come and go, as do the celebrities and politicians. None of it means anything anymore. I know I'm lonely and the conventional cure is to find a friend, but next to even the memory of you they aren't friends at all. They'd drop me in lava if they thought the rest of the world would approve. You'd have stopped earth it on its axis to save me from harm no matter what anyone else thought. I guess I'm spoilt. You were my prince, I was your princess, and together we were the richer than all the money ever created.
She was stuck in a dream, struggling to get back to reality. She screamed out for help but nothing came out of her mouth as she sank deeper and deeper within a sea filled with her mistakes. As she reached the bottom, she knew no-one was going to save her; no knight in shining armour, no Prince Charming. So she closed her eyes and forgot about the world, the world that ruined her forever.
Moira was adept had hiding her broken insides. Ben wanted the happy version of her, the one with the instant smile and the warm things to say. It was her role in his life and he would adapt to nothing else. And so over the years her loneliness grew. Ben could be broken and expect her love and patience, he could show his scars and she would always help. Yet if Moira was sad for more than a few hours, a day even, his impatience grew. Then she would stop herself, swallow down that bitter pill and continue, giving him the impression that a little "tough love" had been all she needed. But there came a day when Moira found herself unable mask the hurt, unable to just switch on her happy side and act as if nothing wrong had ever happened... and that is where her problems began.
She carried her loneliness about with her like a hangover, each moment dulled and minuscule. It was thick like liquorice against her tongue, pressed hard against the roof of her mouth, only suited for a particular taste. If she could make the feeling fall away, she would.
In those streets he was the only beating heart, the only being of warm blood and flesh. The walls around him were doubtless home to many in the fairly recent past, yet now it was an unfamiliar maze to all. The light fell on the words that spoke to nobody, unaware that their audience had vanished, or that the streets lay silent beneath no boots at all, save his. It was as if God had stopped time, removed all the distractions so he could see it for real, see how it really was, what it really was. And in that moment all he wished for was another beating heart in this deserted city, another being of warm blood and flesh, one more pair of boots to walk next to his.
We are more than lonely.
Hearts aligned and strung on a thread so that we beat alone.
We've walked along the road searching for someone who knows
how we got so far from home.
We rise up from the sea, but yet the waves kept us drowning
tides that spit up our soul.
Daylight behind the clouds, a glimmer of haunting.
Our state of mind, just relics in the cold.
A single mass of matter, that wants to matter
in a universal globe.
No one would treat me like a human, as if I was another foreign only I wasn’t. No one deserves this kind of unbearable treatment, right? Even animal dies from loneliness, how much more if it was a person like me? I have feelings, I’m sensitive and I am human just like the rest of them. People only open their mouths to me when they criticize, their fingers jamming on my chest and shoving me. Children scream at me the moment I have come to appear. They run and tell on their mommies or daddies in fear of what I may do to them. I feel like my presence was a bother to society. They have no idea what it feels like, the painful pang on my chest resounding every time glares and scowls are bestowed on me. Loneliness is a silent killer. If I was in deep trouble, no one would dare to approach me for help, fearing they would become like me if they do so. There were kind people who pitied my situation, like the old lady who offered me apples every day, but I didn’t want to be pitied, I wanted to be loved-to be acknowledged by everyone.