All too much of the man-made is ugly, inefficient, depressing chaos.
Every so often, we all gaze into the abyss. It’s a depressing fact of life that eventually the clock expires; eventually the sand in the hourglass runs out. It’s the leaving behind of everything that matters to us that hurts the most.
That’s the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it’s impossible to ever see the end.
There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.
Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.
The darkness is death – we can speak, but we are not heard. We can scream but they turn their backs. We can run, but we cannot catch them. It is the dream where arms and legs won’t work the way they should, and the air is too thick to breathe. Loved ones walk a mile ahead, forgetting to stop as we fall behind. This is the reality of the darkness. We are buried alive inside ourselves.
There’s something depressing about a young couple helplessly in love. Their state is so perfect, it must be doomed. They project such qualities on their lover that only disappointment can follow.
Black is not sad. Bright colors are what depresses me. They’re so… empty. Black is poetic. How do you imagine a poet? In a bright yellow jacket? Probably not.
Depression makes me hate the world, but it gives me a million things to think.
I can’t think of anything when I’m depressed. I just want to be alone.
Depression is not sobbing and crying and giving vent, it is plain and simple reduction of feeling. People who keep stiff upper lips find that it’s damn hard to smile.
Depression is nourished by a lifetime of ungrieved and unforgiven hurts.
When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them, they show us the state of our decay.
For all sad words of tongue and pen, the saddest are these, “It might have been.”
The pleasures of the world are deceitful; they promise more than they give. They trouble us in seeking them, they do not satisfy us when possessing them and they make us despair in losing them.