Lang Leav Sad Quotes

In her eyes, the sadness sings—of one who was destined, for better things.

I don't think all writers are sad, she said. I think it's the other way around- all sad people write.

Do you know what it is like, to lie in bed awake; with thoughts to haunt you every night, of all your past mistakes. Knowing sleep will set it right - if you were not to wake.

I don't think all writers are sad, she said. I think it's the other way around— all sad people write.

The sad thing is,” she said, “the moment you start to miss someone, it means they’re already gone.

I learned that writing is the consolation prize you are given when you don’t get the thing you want the most.

Your first love isn't the first person you give your heart to- it's the first one who beaks it.

You know, missing someone can sometimes be the best thing for a writer.

I'm a stranger in my own life.

Her heart is played like well worn strings In her eyes the sadness sings Of one who was destined of better things

It seems an age ago, since you have left me, time has filled me, with words unsaid; as the sadness seeps into me slowly, and I am left to face the night ahead.

We never made it, did we?

People who are prone to sadness are more likely to pick up a pen.

I'm the one having to pander to you. I'm sick of being the one doing all the chasing. I'm not asking you to make me a priority - I know you've got a lot going on. But at least meet me halfway.

Our emotions pull us in different directions. The stronger the emotion, the greater the pull. Feelings are not always practical, nor do they make any logical sense. That's just the way it goes.

If you have to be with someone at all, then be with someone who makes you feel like you are still in control.

You said my sadness was like the sun, beautiful from a distance but it hurt you too much to come closer.

Great name, though. I'd fuck that name.

Sad Songs Once there was a boy who couldn't speak but owned a music box that held every song in all the world. One day he met a girl who had never heard a single melody in her entire life and so he played her his favorite song. He watched while her face lit up with wonder as the music filled the sky and the poetry of lyrics moved her in a way she had never felt before. He would play his songs for her day after day and she would sit by him quietly—never seeming to mind that he could only speak to her through song. She loved everything he played for her, but of them all—she loved the sad songs best. So he began to play them more and more until eventually, sad songs were all she would hear. One day, he noticed it had been a very long time since her last smile. When he asked her why, she took both his hands in hers and kissed them warmly. She thanked him for his gift of music and poetry but above all else—for showing her sadness because she had known neither of these things before him. But it was now time for her to go away—to find someone who could show her what happiness was. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Do you remember the song that was playing the night we met? No, but I remember every song I have heard since you left.

Because sooner or later, all kinds of love - crazy love, wild love- fade into the same thing. The love becomes old and predictable -safe.

I can't believe how hard it is. The pain is indescribable. It's like I've been turned into sandstone and my insides are being slowly hollowed out by a chisel and mallet.

Writing is a conduit. It opens up a passageway into the past. Not just for the writer, but for the reader too. Both readers and writer are linked by the commonality of human experience.

Loving You I saw him the other day. His arms around another girl, his eyes when met with mine - were low in their recognition. I wonder if he remembers what I once told him. I will love you forever. He had smiled at me sadly before giving his reply. But I am so afraid you may one day stop. Now all these years later, I am the one who is afraid. Because I love him, I still do. I haven't stopped, I don't think I can. I don't think I ever will.

It’s amazing what people create using their pain. Work that is touched by melancholy has its own unique beauty. Even the word ‘melancholy’ is pretty, the way it rolls on your tongue. I think sadness adds something to literature that is unique. It’s an ingredient like . . .” I thought for a moment. “Like salt. Salt has that power to completely transform a dish. I think sadness has that same transformative effect in literature.

Where It Hurts There are days when the melancholy settles on you like a sudden change in weather. The kind of sadness that is intangible. Like the presence of an ache where you can't pinpoint exactly where it hurts, you just know it does.

It's almost like there was only an up and down before him, but now I hav discovered you can also go sideways too.

First love," said Ida with a sigh. "That's the one that kills you.

You are a toolbox, and you have to add stuff to it and build on it. I think the more tools you have, the better life gets." "I like that idea." "That's my mission in life. To keep adding to the toolbox.

The truth is, everyone wants to believe they’re in love but no one really is. So to all the girls out there who are stuck between two minds about some stupid crush, I have news for you. If you have to wonder, if you have to question what you feel, then deep down you actually don’t give a shit. As for the rest of you who do get it, welcome to the club. If you know what it’s like to want someone so much you would kill for them. If you know what it’s like to feel someone so deep under your skin you would sacrifice everything to protect them—even if it screws up your own moral compass so you can’t see right from wrong. If you’re like me, then let me leave you with this: That’s what love is. Don’t let them tell you any different. Don’t tell yourself otherwise.

Life has a way of working itself out. You’ll see.

But i would love to write something, maybe a book. I want to travel to a small town someday - one with fir trees and snowcapped mountains. Than I would spend an entire winter writing to my heart's content.

One day, he noticed it had been a very long time since her last smile. When he asked her why, she took both his hands in hers and kissed them warmly. She thanked him for his gift of music and poetry but above all else—for showing her sadness because she had known neither of these things before him. But it was now time for her to go away—to find someone who could show her what happiness was.

A Dream As the Earth began spinning faster and faster, we floated upwards, hands locked tightly together, eyes sad and bewildered. We watched as our faces grew younger and realized the Earth was spinning in reverse, moving us backwards in time. Then we reached a point where I no longer knew who you were and I was grasping the hands of a stranger. But I didn't let go. And neither did you. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I had my first dream about you last night. Really? She smiles. What was it about? I don't remember exactly, but the whole time I was dreaming, I knew you were mine.

I used to think people were like lighthouses. That they were yhere to protect you. But they're no. People are lime whirlpools. They pull you in; they drag you under. You have to work so hard just to keep your head above water.

‪We all need to follow our intuition, even if it takes us down the wrong path. Otherwise, you’ll always be second-guessing yourself.

That night, we talked the way old friends do, with candor and ease.

People get dumped all the time, and it sucks, but you know what you do? You cry; you smash a few plates; you go to a karaoke bar and make a fool of yourself. However you choose to deal with it, it’s your shit to handle. It’s your burden to carry. You don’t drag other people down with you. You don’t turn up on the doorstep in the middle of the night acting like a raving lunatic.

Maybe we slip in and out of alternate worlds through our minds and our imaginations, picking up scar tissue from other dimensions.

That's the thing about writers -on one hand evrything is sacred to them, but, on the other, nothing really is.

Writing is the consolation prize you are given when you don't get the thing you want the most.

Death, like fiction, is brutal in its symmetry. Take this story and strip it down -all the way back- until you are left with two points. Two dots on a vast, blank canvas, separeted by a sea of white. Here, we have come to the first point, where the batj is drawn and the hand is reachinh for the razor blade. I will meet you at the next, by the axle of a screaming wheel, the revolution of a clock, the closing of an orbit.

Searching for the one thing, that would set my sad soul free.

Writing There is one thing you should know about writing. It will inevitably lead you to dark places as you cannot write authentically about something unless you have lived it. However, you should always bear in mind that you are only a tourist and must always remain one. You were blessed with the gift of words, in order to bring a voice to suffering. But do not be too indulgent despite how addictive sadness can be, how easy it is to get lost down the path of self-destruction. You must emerge from adversity, scathed but victorious to tell your story, and, in turn, light the way for others.

I miss talking to him. Every time I come across something I think he'd like, I just wish I could call him up or send him a text. Like the other day, I saw this movie, Coherence. It was about parallel universes, and I just know he'd love it. That's the thing; he's the ongly person i know who would appreciete it the same way I do. And I wish I could watch it with him and talk to him about it. Why is that so important to me? I don't get it. I didn't even think about all this before I knew him.

You can create something that is pure genius, but you have to get your timing right.

Impossibility Do you know the feeling when you’re so happy that you can’t imagine ever being sad again? Or when you’re so sad that you no longer believe you could ever be happy? When you tell me you love me, I always think of that strange emotion—that feeling of impossibility. You say you love me, and you can’t imagine a future without me in it, yet all I can think of is how you must have felt the same way once about someone else.

Now I knew why I had been hollowed out, why my insides were chipped away with a chisel and mallet. It was to make room for this new feeling, this love that was so vast, so expansive it could not have fit into the vessel I once was.

I think it's because we romanticize the past. We give it more than it deserves.

I think that bothers me more than anything. That he could look in my eyes and tell me something that is completely contrary to the truth.

It’s good to trust your instincts; they’re usually right.

Thoughts Dawn turns to day, as stars are dispersed; wherever I lay, I think of you first. The sun has arisen, the sky, a sad blue. I quietly listen— the wind sings of you. The thoughts we each keep, that are closer to heart, we think as we sleep— and you're always my last

Self-Love Searching for the one thing, That would set my sad soul free. In time I stumbled upon it, An inner calm and peace; And now I am beginning, To see and believe, In who I am becoming- And all I’ve yet to be.

Moments That's the tragedy of growing up—knowing you'll run out of feeling something new for the first time. the sad things is you only get so many of those moments—a handful if you're lucky—and then you spend the rest of your life turning them over in your head. I think that's why you meant as much to me as you did, why I held on for so long. I didn't know if back then, but you were the last time I would ever feel anything new.

Sad Things Why do you write sad things? he asked. When I am here, when I love you. Because someday , in one way or another, you will be taken from me or I you. It is inevitable. But please understand; from the moment I met you, I stopped writing for the past. I no longer write for the present. When I write sad things, I am writing for the future.

A Small Consolation Everything that we once were, is now a sad and lonely verse. When once I had so much to say, I am now bereft of words. Sometimes it is the order of things, that make them seem much worse. It's not as if you would have stayed, if I hadn't left you first.

You know, I still can't get my head around what happened to Ana. She was there last week. She lent me a pen in English class. How can someone go from lending a pen to being dead?

I was bulletproof, and I didn’t even know it.

In the dying embers and blackened twigs of a ravaged forest, who could distinguish where the first spark was lit? Only the arsionist knows the exact location where that match was struck.

You said I was like a bird of prey, caged by my captors and made to sing love songs to the sky. You said my sadness was like the sun, beautiful from a distance but it hurt you too much to come closer.

There are days when the melancholy settles on you like a sudden change in weather. The kind of sadness that is intangible. Like the presence of an ache where you can't pinpoint exactly where it hurts, you just know it does.

Describing a panic attack to someone who has never experienced one is impossible. However, to one who has, no explanation is needed. You just have to say the word “anxiety” and their eyes would light up with a knowing look.

Ana was the original sad girl. She held the unofficial title long before her death. We all became sad girls after that. At her funeral, everyone wore black because it was customary and because it was the color that best defined Ana.

Who You Are He has you, words tangled, wings clipped, folded at your breast. Trapped within yourself thinking, how did I get here? With all your promise and intellect, how did I get here? Whittled down like this, reduced to something you wore you'd never be. Now, how do you tear yourself away from him without ripping your life to shreds? You no longer recognize yourself, but sweet girl, that means you still know who you are. And while there is still a glimmer of hope behind those sad, tired eyes, know he hasn't worn you down. And while there is an ounce of fight left in you, know he wasn't won just yet. And while there is a chance in hell you get out of this, you come out swinging.

The Chase I have grown soft—forgotten what it was like to go hungry. Love has spoilt me, but I don't miss a man I have to chase. Does that seem sad to you? That I don't miss you? I wish I could tell you about my life. Paint a picture of everything you're missing. Sometimes I still feel you, looking out from behind my eyes. There was a time when I would have given it all to you. But not anymore. The truth is, I loved our love more than I loved you.

Like It Was You've waited so long for someone who can laugh with even when you're sad Someone you can be at peace with, even with a stomach full of butterflies And as you are searching the great sea of darkness for a flicker of light there is someone who is searching for you One day you will find refuge in another, and they will learn to know your heart like it was their own

After we left the cafè, Rad and I drove aimlessly for hours, lost in conversation. By then, it had stopped raining, and the night air was warm and still. We had no idea where we were.None of the street names were familiar, but we didn't care, it felt almost dreamlike, as though we had slipped into a new reality.

Audrey, if you had the choice, would you rather be his muse or be in his arms?" "I want to be both. I know it's the exception rather than the rule, but I can't hepl what I want.

Not all writers are sad... All sad people write.

He said loving me was like seeing the ocean for the first time. Watching the waves crash senselessly against the rocks, over and over. Grabbing fistfuls of sand as it trickled through his fingers, like my hair, brittle as ebony, strong and taut like the bumps of his knuckles. He said it was like swallowing his first mouthful of the sea — the sudden shock of betrayal.

It was strange. The words “panic attack” were thrown around so often that I used to think nothing of it, applying the expression to the most trivial things. But now whenever I heard it, my stomach turned itself into knots. I used to be bulletproof, and I didn't even know it. Describing a panic attack to someone who has never experienced one is impossible. However, to one who has, no explanation is needed. You just have to say the word “anxiety,” and their eyes would light up with a knowing look. A mixture of “Welcome to the club” and “I know it sucks, but at least you're not alone.

Moments Thats the tragedy of growing up-knowing you’ll run out of feeling something for the first time. The sad thing is you only get so many of those moments- a handful if you’re lucky.

RSL has more star-liners than any other company, and covers every commercial route in known space. Demeter is one of the biggest, carrying up to 4500 passengers and crew at any single point on its never-ending, circular cruise around the Terran Empire. And me? Where do I fit in? My name is Sean Lange, and you will probably have never heard of me. It’s sad somehow, I always wanted to leave some kind of a legacy in this life, and perhaps to be remembered. Instead, circumstances have arranged it so that this is probably the last time I will ever use that name.

Shipwrecks The wild seas for which she longed, lay far beyond the shore. The shipwreck that her lips had sung, meant she never left at all. It wasn't 'til the tide had won, that she learned it could not hurt her. It was the furthest she had gone - and she never went much further.