Quotes About Despair

Three weeks ago, he'd seen hail fall from the sky, only to be followed minutes later by a spectacular rainbow that seemed to frame the azalea bushes. The colors, so vivid they seemed almost alive, made him think that nature sometimes sends us signs, that it's important to remember that joy can always follow despair. But a moment later, the rainbow had vanished and the hail returned, and he realized that joy was sometimes only an illusion.

I think it's because you're frightened and you feel helpless, and even though you're trying, things continue to get harder and harder—for the both of you. And the more you try, the more hopeless things seem." "Is there any way to stop feeling this way?

Hope might leave me crushed in the end, but losing all hope somehow seemed even worse. I

My own bandmembers wouldn't return my calls and I lost multiple tour managers, crew members. I can't tell you how many friends stopped talking to me.

My soul is dead.

Despair is a narcotic. It lulls the mind into indifference.

combination of unemployment or underemployment, the failure of marriages, the loss of social cohesion, and declining health. They argue that the "collapse of the white, high school educated, working class after its heyday in the 1970s" led to a variety of "pathologies" that fostered a potentially fatal despair.

These slow-acting and cumulative social forces seem to us to be plausible candidates to explain rising morbidity and mortality, particularly their role in suicide, and with the other deaths of despair, which share much with suicides," they wrote.

When life is not worth living, everything becomes a pretext for ridding ourselves of it. . . . There is a collective mood, as there is an individual mood, that inclines nations to sadness. . . . For individuals are too closely involved in the life of society for it to be sick without their being affected. Its suffering inevitably becomes theirs. ÉMILE DURKHEIM, On Suicide1

The state man's threat to steal her family enlivened her as if doused by ice water. The leaden fatigue of her despair evaporated. Something inside her unlocked.

Cynicism was a one-way path, and once taken the way back was lost forever.

La religion est, aux yeux de Lucrèce, une superstition qui plonge les hommes dans l'angoisse et le désespoir. La philosophie, elle, a une fonction libératrice.

By the time it was over, we knew the dead were the lucky ones.

Life is nothing but rags and tags and filthy rags at that. Why was I ever born?

Those tears reminded him, every time he looked in the mirror, he wasn't human anymore. Everything had been taken from him, leaving him a shell. An empty shell.

You think I was out here debating whether or not to end my life because I was wounded and in pain, but that wasn't the reason. I had given up all hope of finding the woman meant for me. I was no longer certain I could endure loneliness without her.

He made her want to cry. She was no one's miracle. More like their nightmare.

Those long endless nights of gray voids, an abyss of hell really, a bleak nothingness, occasionally interrupted by a battle with the undead, there had been no hope left. He had forgotten joy. Laughter. Fun. Maybe he had never known it. Now there was Adalasia with her brightness.

He groaned and dropped into the nearest kitchen chair, pushing his head into his hands. "Death by peanut butter. I never thought I'd go that way.

He'd grown up a criminal. A man who hurt others. A man who destroyed the lives of others. A man who killed. That was who and what he was, and no matter how hard he tried to climb out of that world of blood and treachery, there was no getting out. Never. He didn't have much to live for.

The night sky was dark and cloudy and felt very much like her weeping heart.

Suddenly she could barely breathe. She was always calm, yet now, in the face of the knowledge that she might never find her brother, never be able to tell him that she cared, she couldn't breathe. Couldn't find a way to catch her breath.

He heart beating too fast. He had always known he had no chance at finding a woman of his own, one who might be able to love him, to live with him, and in the blink of an eye that had turned around. Just as fast, she was being taken from him.

The lost soul whose heart reaches out to grasp love While his arms were forced through precedent to hang lifeless Whose very soul cries out to a love that cannot be returned Where can a substitute, a partial relief be found? How can a futureless life go on? Yet, it does. Year after year, the body lives, while the soul dies.