sad - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Her eyes shifted to the side again and became glazed with a glassy layer of tears. As she blinked, they dripped from her eyelids and slid down her cheeks. She bit her lip tightly in attempt to hide any sound that wanted to escape from her mouth; my heart sank.
Her lower lip quivered as words slowly made their way out of her mouth. “They’re…” She began, yet what followed was engulfed in the tremors.
The tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. She was too sad to cry out or wail, she just stood there as still as a statue while the magnitude of her loss swept over her. When asked years later to describe her sadness in the moment she heard of the tragic news of her son's death, her eyes would brim with tears once more, as if all those years had passed in a matter of seconds and she would say nothing. For once again she was lost in the torrid vortex of the moment. It was a moment that carried her forwards until only death could release her from it's clutches. She was forever tormented by a past that could not be undone.
"Sad" sounds so childish, like something flimsy, something one should be able to cast off with a happy reflection or the smile of a friend. But "sad" is nothing of the sort. It sits inside like the germ seed of depression, just waiting for the right conditions to grow, to send out roots to choke the hope out of your heart. It is the trough in which we struggle to return to the peak, always afraid that this time the rungs will be too slippery, too far apart or simply not there at all.
There were days Hayley awoke and her memories weighed heavy. The morning radio came to her through a haze and the smiles of others were no more real than the pixelated icons on her phone. It was temporary of course, but in that permanent way; however high she rose and how long she stayed away this was the base-line she always returned to.
He came suddenly upon a man sitting in an attitude of profound distress beneath a projecting mass of rock. The hands of this man hung limply over his knees, his eyes were red and staring before him, and his face was wet with tears.
Eva watched the other children laugh and play from the corner of the playground. How could they be happy when she felt so sad. Part of her wanted them to feel her pain too, so she wouldn't be so lonely with it, but part of her was glad they couldn't, it was private after all. Her eyes suddenly swam with tears and she hurried to scrub them from her face. She knew tears would lead to sympathy, and sympathy would lead to more tears.
His dry face was an insult to his mother, who seemed to feel that he should be crying at the news of his Grandfather's passing. He ran to his bedroom and slammed the door. He felt the kind of sadness that seeps into your bones rather than explodes in a cascade of tears like his sister. He was sad for all the fun times he had thought they were still to have and would now never share. He was sad that he had felt too grown-up to get a hug last time they had visited. And he was sad that his grandmother had lost her soul-mate. But while his body seemed to grow colder and his mind seemed to fill with a leaden feeling, his face remained stubbornly dry and so he grieved on his own.
Behind the masked smile she wears on her face, there is sadness and shock. She anxiously looks at her left and right, repeatedly as a single sound passes by, checking for signs of danger that will not come. I do not blame her for being unreasonably afraid. I can see how terrified she will be as the memory will come back and play on her mind over and over again like a broken record. It will only repeat, I tell you.
Why are so-called friends never consistent? I'm beginning to feel like my soul, when it comes to friends, is just a revolving door. No sooner are they there than they're gone. They speak to me only in awkward silences.
When I was a baby I was greeted by smiles and mirrored them. But after a while, like a shuttlecock, I was passed from one person to the other. Until at twelve the "care" system stepped in. Of course by then, smiles or compassion were as foreign to me as Mars and about as rare as Halley's comet, so I just got used to coldness. Since then, the hope of ever having love or giving it had flaked like a painted butterfly on a wall year after year,gradually fading into non-existence.
Sadness. Something I never understood. Why be sad of something which has already happened?After all, there's no point crying over spilled milk. Unfortunately, when you get sad, it's like being stabbed in the heart a thousand times without dying. I know because I experienced when we were bombed. I remember the tears which stung like bees; the deafening screams which still haunt me today; the blood-thirsty fire chasing me to death and most of all, I didn't know whether I was dead or alive. When it was all over, my eyes scanned for a survivor but to my disappointment I was the only survivor. You see, it's memories that create emotions and it's emotions that create those memories.
Ralyn is strong. She has to be. She has to be strong for her friends, brighten their day with a smile as sincere as she can muster. For her family, to always love them and put their needs above her own. That is what she does every day. But on the inside she lives in a never ending death. At night she suffers, pouring out her tears to the stars, begging them with her tear-soaked eyes to understand her misery. Will no one understand that her heart is no longer her own, will anyone love her so much that they could see past her ugliness?