old man - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
He was an old man, but I could see the young boy in him still yearning to return to his train set. It was as if his soul sat down at one of those little platforms with the tiny trees, waiting at the miniature station for the steady sound of turning wheels and puffs of steam. Or maybe that inner boy waited for a time to put down the mask of sanguine resilience and be himself all over again, playful and silly. I could see the worry lines and how they made crosses with those of joy, the boy his parents welcomed and the man the world asked for, the one who'd love to rise and the one who'd love to rest.
The old man had a fringe of grey-white hair around his balding, mottled scalp. He had a wizened face and a back slightly hunched. With each movement there was the creak of old bones.He had the resigned look of one who knows that at his age life has stopped giving and only takes away.
The old man hunched over in his lounge chair, leaning closer to the fire, edging his hands towards the flames to warm them from the bitter evening. The light from the flames illuminated his tired, worn face, wrinkles boring deeply into his skin.His expression was of frustration and fatigue. The world seemed no place for this man; he had had enough. This man had stories to tell, experience danced on his lips like a curious child. And yet he stayed silent, those listless eyes just watching, not telling, fire adorning his skin.
...small, roundish, and moved with ungainly restlessness, like a number of elderly squirrels trying to escape from a sack. His own age was on the older side of completely indeterminate. If you picked a number at random, he was probably a little older than that, but- well, it was impossible to tell. Certainly his face was heavily lined, and the small amount of hair that escaped from under his red woolen skiing hat was thin, white, and had very much its own ideas about how it wished to arrange itself. He too was muffled inside a heavy coat, but over it he wore a billowing gown with very faded purple trim, the badge of his unique and very peculiar academic office.
The doctor wore that face he always did when the news wasn't good. "Burt, you're developing Alzheimer's like your father did."
Burt's wrinkled face crumpled as he rubbed it with his spotted hand. "Pops got so violent. He wasn't himself anymore. Doc, I can't be like that..." His voice broke away as his chest heaved.
The doctor shook his head with the tiniest of smiles. "A cup can only spill over if there's something in it. There's no anger in you. You're just not going to remember things so well, and it's slow, you've got a while."
The old man had long since forgotten what it felt like to have joints that moved freely, without pain. His aches were his constant companions, not friends, but always with him. His memories both warmed and haunted him, sometimes drawing a smile and other times a tear. And time was the thief he always suspected her to be, taking his wife, taking his friends. Everybody seems to want to have a long life, but what good is it if your life partners are dead and your children too busy to visit? What is it then but marking time? He would describe being an old man as like bobbing on an ocean in a boat, not knowing when death will finally come to sever the rope that binds you to the shore, that binds you to this earthly coil.
When the wizened old man would describe his life, we were instantly transported to another place and time. His voice was slow and he stumbled on his words at times. Sometimes he was overtaken by emotions that had been buried for decades and he would have to pause. When he gesticulated it was with the creak of age in his bones. At times he would seem excited to tell us a tale. Other times he seemed like he was honouring a solemn duty to remember the fallen. After speaking for a time he would often nod off into an afternoon nap and we would tuck him in under a quilt his late-wife had made before heading on home, locking the door behind us.
The old man was a shrivelled toothless creature, feeble and walked with a cane. He looks as though a puff of wind could blow him down. He had a hand tremor and constant waggling and bobbing of the head. The old man's deep wrinkles seemed to carve a map of his life on his still agile and mobile facial features. His twinkling eyes were framed by thick white eyebrows and on his stubbled chin were white whiskers.
The old man's thick, groomed moustache was sliver-white. His wide forehead had numerous lines.
The old man was swimming in the tide water of his seventh decade. He was weary, mean and cranky. He was surprisingly agile for his age.
The old man was leaning on a walking cane. He had a shuffling gait and gnarled hands.
A wizened face peered out from under a wedge of blue hat, which was the only thing on his otherwise bald and mottled scalp save a sparse fringe of white. His eyes were so heavily lidded and weighed down with wrinkled folds that it was almost like talking to someone asleep, yet he was quite alert. Not seeing Lacy beneath the level of the counter he said “One youth admission?” Sophie had been expecting the croak of old age but his voice was more like a sergeant major, strong and distinctly upper class.
The map of wrinkles on his face told of the most incredible journey. His eye lines told of laughter, of warm smiles and affection. His forehead told of worries past and worries present. But mostly they were so deeply engrained they told or a man who had travelled through eight decades to that moment; to stand here as an old man, beaten and forlorn. To be dismissed as "old" when he was so much more than the sum of his parts.
In appearance Jeff was nothing special, but when it he opened his mouth, it was like hearing a bird sing for the first time. He was old and his deep wrinkles seemed to carve a map of his life on his still agile and mobile facial features. His twinkling eyes were framed by thick white eyebrows and on his stubbled chin were white whiskers. His bright blue eyes shone in the bright day light as his few dazzling teeth shone with a fresh white gleam.
Close to death the old man was lying on the cold, wet floor - hungry but not sick. Bill has never had a proper meal in his life .