Quotes About Weariness

He is tired out from the effort of deciphering the world. Tired from the effort of smiling at the foe.

The man continued looking at me, refusing to comment. Uncle Mahmoud tried to speak for him: "Who can blame him? He's tired of people.

We may not die from age, but we grow weary with it.

Men grow tired of sleep, love, singing and dancing sooner than of war.

He did nothing that he wasn't obliged to do because the effort of existence exhausted him. He slept whenever he could. Getting up each morning was like moving his limbs through thick mud.

Some days she slouched for endless hours on the sofa, yawning hugely, like someone suffering from terrible jet lag.

Sometimes the discovery of something we can classify as our voice coincides with a weariness with that voice, and the struggle begins to create a new voice.

The world, a tired performer, offers us another half-assed season.

I didn't feel anything but a bone-deep weariness. Like I was suddenly a hundred years old, and I knew at that moment I would have to live a hundred more years, carrying my grief around like a backpack full of stones.

I don't know how it is, but I am so tired of commonplace happiness and commonplace goals.

Third box car, midnight train, destination Bangor, Maine. Old worn out suit and shoes, I don't pay no union dues.

I am tired of looking on what is, One might as well see beauty never more, As look upon it with an empty eye. I would this world were over. I am tired.

There was no grandeur here, no sublimity, only weariness and gloom.

the vocabulary of love was so tired.

It is an awful thing to be betrayed by your body. And it's lonely, because you feel you can't talk about it. You feel it's something between you and the body. You feel it's a battle you will never win . . . and yet you fight it day after day, and it wears you down. Even if you try to ignore it, the energy it takes to ignore it will exhaust you.

The Midnight Dance of the Universal Desk Sergeant, a performance that is somehow the same whether the precinct house is in Boston or Biloxi. Was there ever a desk sergeant who didn't peer out over reading glasses? Was there ever a desk man who wanted to be bothered with police work at three in the morning? Was any station house desk ever manned by anything but aging civil servants, six months from their pensions, whose every movement seemed slower than death itself?

I wish I had an answer to that because I'm tired of answering that question.

It's really easy to want to just sleep all day.

I really don't feel like playing anymore.

Çok mutluyum, mutluluk benim için bir hastal?k gibidir, beni yorar ve bir dü? gibi silinip gitmesinden korkar?m.

He was already tired of the rain. He never took long to grow weary of it in winter, though he liked it in the summertime when it fell hard, silver and green, and afterward steamed from the backs of horses, steamed up from the railroad ties and lay in a mist along Town Creek. In summer, the birds sang after a rain, but no such music rose from the cold drizzle of the dead time. Only silence, and only the dark.

too weary and dazed by unfinished sleep even to swear. There comes a degree of numbness in fatigue and exasperation which can be expressed only by a sullen silence.

sick of it whatever it's called sick of the names I dedicate every pore to what's here

Alberta felt her face grow old and shrivelled at her own words. She was a shadow already, half old, distressing, comic. Something happened from year to year, suspicion became knowledge, bad dreams reality. A weariness crept over her, more intense and pervasive than any she had known before. It sat in her back, sapping her strength. She sank down into it as if it were an abyss, sank inwards into gaping emptiness.