Meaningless Life Sad Quotes

It's everybody, I mean. Everything everybody does is so — I don't know — not wrong, or even mean, or even stupid necessarily. But just so tiny and meaningless and — sad-making. And the worst part is, if you go bohemian or something crazy like that, you're conforming just as much only in a different way.

I had someone once who made every day mean something. And now…. I am lost…. And nothing means anything anymore.

The best way to verify that you are alive is by checking if you like variations. Remember that food would not have a taste if it weren’t for hunger; results are meaningless without effort, joy without sadness, convictions without uncertainty, and an ethical life isn’t so when stripped of personal risks.

Life is full of sadness. It's part of being a woman. Our lives are lived for the sake of others. Our happiness is never factored in. Do I want this life? Living here and seeing my husband a few times a year, raising my daughter alone? I don't know what it was like in America, but this is how life is. This is reality. But this advice is coming too late. It's meaningless now.

And he could go on in life, existing from day to day, without connection and without hope. For he did not know what to do with himself.

If I do depart this world out here, let it be known that I went out grinning will you, and loving it. LOVING IT. Steve, are you listening ? I FEEL GREAT. Life’s so joyous, so sad, so ephemeral, so crazy, so meaningless, so goddamn funny. This is paradise, and I wish I could give you some.

There I often walked along the shore, listened to the sea, and thought as I had done in my youth, with amazement and horror, about the sad and senseless confusion of life, that one could love in vain, that people who meant well toward each other should work out their destinies separately, each one going his own inexplicable way, and how each would like to help and draw close to the other and yet was unable to do so, as in troubled meaningless dreams.

Because my life is empty window of nothingness punctuated by meaningless details of totally mundane non-events.

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Sad.” She lets out a bitter laugh. “Life is full of sadness. It’s part of being a woman. Our lives are lived for the sake of others. Our happiness is never factored in. Do I want this life? Living here and seeing my husband a few times a year, raising my daughter alone? I don’t know what it was like for you in America, but this is how life is. This is reality. But this advice is coming too late. It’s meaningless now.

To the horror of those who can genuinely claim to have suffered from its effects, alienation has proved a highly profitable commodity in the cultural marketplace. Modernist art with its dissonances and torments, to take one example, has become the staple diet of an increasingly voracious army of culture consumers who know good investments when they see them. The avant-garde, if indeed the term can still be used, has become an honored ornament of our cultural life, less to be feared than feted. The philosophy of existentialism, to cite another case, which scarcely a generation ago seemed like a breath of fresh air, has now degenerated into a set of easily manipulated clichés and sadly hollow gestures. This decline occurred, it should be noted, not because analytic philosophers exposed the meaninglessness of its categories, but rather as a result of our culture’s uncanny ability to absorb and defuse even its most uncompromising opponents.

We are tired of pain no words can quantify our breath is running away life feels meaningless

A life of conflict and greediness causes a person to suffer from the rheumatism of sadness.

Given a choice, I would never want a life totally devoid of pain, but life is meaningless without some sadness.

We must treasure our memories just as we cherish our dreams because without dreams and memory human life would be sad, brutal, and meaningless.

Shae gave a nod of silent understanding. Niko had put into words something she'd felt for a long time -- a sense that she struggled not only against the Mountain and all the other enemies of the clan, but against something even larger and more inexorable. Niko lowered his gaze to his hands. "I thought I could escape and find some other meaning in my life. But if the clan crumbles, either quickly or slowly, if it becomes as obsolete and irrelevant as people like Jim Sunto believe, then everything that made me, including my father's murder and my mother's execution, would be meaningless. Every drop of blood spilled, every sacrifice made, every child ever trained to wear jade as a Green Bone warrior of Kekon over centuries of history.... That's what the Pillar carries. That's our power, and ours alone." He looked back toward the school with a small, sad smile. "Ru tried so hard to tell me that I was a selfish fool to run away from it. He was right.

Without you, life has become meaningless, music has become melody-less, food has become tasteless, flowers have become colorless, the mind has become restless, and my heart has become feeling less.

I became aware of a dull, cemetery-dead emptiness inside. I had stopped feeling anything at all. No rage, sadness, fear, nothing. I had finally crossed the line and ceased to give a damn about life, death, or any other meaningless thing in between.

Don't worry Jeff, life is meaningless; it's strange and inexplicable that we exist to begin with. we are all basically dead already in the grand scheme of things, and our feelings of sadness are pointless - they are just how our meat sacks react to the chemicals in our bodies.

Antidepression medication is temperamental. Somewhere around fifty-nine or sixty I noticed the drug I’d been taking seemed to have stopped working. This is not unusual. The drugs interact with your body chemistry in different ways over time and often need to be tweaked. After the death of Dr. Myers, my therapist of twenty-five years, I’d been seeing a new doctor whom I’d been having great success with. Together we decided to stop the medication I’d been on for five years and see what would happen... DEATH TO MY HOMETOWN!! I nose-dived like the diving horse at the old Atlantic City steel pier into a sloshing tub of grief and tears the likes of which I’d never experienced before. Even when this happens to me, not wanting to look too needy, I can be pretty good at hiding the severity of my feelings from most of the folks around me, even my doctor. I was succeeding well with this for a while except for one strange thing: TEARS! Buckets of ’em, oceans of ’em, cold, black tears pouring down my face like tidewater rushing over Niagara during any and all hours of the day. What was this about? It was like somebody opened the floodgates and ran off with the key. There was NO stopping it. 'Bambi' tears... 'Old Yeller' tears... 'Fried Green Tomatoes' tears... rain... tears... sun... tears... I can’t find my keys... tears. Every mundane daily event, any bump in the sentimental road, became a cause to let it all hang out. It would’ve been funny except it wasn’t. Every meaningless thing became the subject of a world-shattering existential crisis filling me with an awful profound foreboding and sadness. All was lost. All... everything... the future was grim... and the only thing that would lift the burden was one-hundred-plus on two wheels or other distressing things. I would be reckless with myself. Extreme physical exertion was the order of the day and one of the few things that helped. I hit the weights harder than ever and paddleboarded the equivalent of the Atlantic, all for a few moments of respite. I would do anything to get Churchill’s black dog’s teeth out of my ass. Through much of this I wasn’t touring. I’d taken off the last year and a half of my youngest son’s high school years to stay close to family and home. It worked and we became closer than ever. But that meant my trustiest form of self-medication, touring, was not at hand. I remember one September day paddleboarding from Sea Bright to Long Branch and back in choppy Atlantic seas. I called Jon and said, “Mr. Landau, book me anywhere, please.” I then of course broke down in tears. Whaaaaaaaaaa. I’m surprised they didn’t hear me in lower Manhattan. A kindly elderly woman walking her dog along the beach on this beautiful fall day saw my distress and came up to see if there was anything she could do. Whaaaaaaaaaa. How kind. I offered her tickets to the show. I’d seen this symptom before in my father after he had a stroke. He’d often mist up. The old man was usually as cool as Robert Mitchum his whole life, so his crying was something I loved and welcomed. He’d cry when I’d arrive. He’d cry when I left. He’d cry when I mentioned our old dog. I thought, “Now it’s me.” I told my doc I could not live like this. I earned my living doing shows, giving interviews and being closely observed. And as soon as someone said “Clarence,” it was going to be all over. So, wisely, off to the psychopharmacologist he sent me. Patti and I walked in and met a vibrant, white-haired, welcoming but professional gentleman in his sixties or so. I sat down and of course, I broke into tears. I motioned to him with my hand; this is it. This is why I’m here. I can’t stop crying! He looked at me and said, “We can fix this.” Three days and a pill later the waterworks stopped, on a dime. Unbelievable. I returned to myself. I no longer needed to paddle, pump, play or challenge fate. I didn’t need to tour. I felt normal.

When he came home early, he was dreary. There, he'd sit by the fireplace, his worn hands gripping the newspaper a bit too tight, his eyes held to it, unseeing, towards the words, the meaningless grouping of letters on that newspaper. The fire would cackle, sizzle, full of life, so opposite to this man, whose face was crossed with the burdens of the world, and lips pressed thing under that bushy mustache. His grief sat on him like a cloud, sending him into a dimension that left his eyes two empty coals, his chest an impossible storm. He spoke to no one, and hardly did anyone speak to him, because words were never something he was good at. Then, when the sky darkened, he's stand, and trudge to his room, where his bed waited, cold and hungry, just as he'd always known it to be.

What is my motivation for writing this? I’m tired of seeing so many people struggle. I’m frustrated at seeing so many kids coming out of college without even the basic skills for living a free life for themselves. I’m fed up watching so many parents in a stage of utter exhaustion, wondering what happened to their life after believing that following the rules we were all taught would lead them to success rather than the road to nowhere. I’m sad watching so many of us in our thirties and forties miss out on precious time with our families by drowning in meaningless work, and then finding relief inside a bottle of wine. And I want to prevent those about to embark on this journey to learn from our mistakes and successes.

Remember that food would not have a taste if it weren't for hunger; results are meaningless without effort, joy without sadness, convictions without uncertainty, and an ethical life isn't so when stripped of personal risks.

The only thing standing between me and the thought that life was completely meaningless was the idea that producing something out of all my misery might make things feel worthwhile.

Dreams and aspirations are what make us human and separate us from animals. Animals live life doing the same things every day without any aim or meaning. Their life is a meaningless repetition. Sadly, most people do the exact same thing. In the rat race to make a living, they forget how to live. But the great thing about humans is that we have the power of conscious choice, in other words we can make a choice to do things differently should we really want to. It is likely that we only have one shot at life, why live with regret? Go after what you want to do, with no expectation of external results. At least this way even if you fail, you will never end up with one of the biggest life regrets of them all – The regret of failing because you never tried.

feelings? Why are you sad, anxious, angry or longing? Count all your stressful thoughts down. (My thoughts are ...)   4. Thinking: What triggers your problem? What is the way out of your problem? What brings you to love, success, fulfillment, satisfaction? Think about your problem for so long, until you find a solution. Think about different solutions. Collect all the information you need.   5. Implementation: Follow your positive thoughts. Fulfil your positive life plan. Avoid meaningless brooding. Now is the time to realize

The people's need to share has turned into a massive disease. It has taken them to the most private meaningless part of their lives. In such circumstance, values become redefined and what has been worthless in the past, has become the core value of the new age. The disaster starts where the essence of the discourse changes. The modern age, with all its technological advances, has taken human to the fast fall. We are going down faster than being trapped into a mire. The transition of the discourse has also given us a great gift, senselessness. Therefore, we have transitioned into piles of senseless machines, drained of human essentiality and drowning into a giant mire. The sad part is, due to the lack of true sense, we don't even feel it. Our only safety guard, which is entirely absurd and phantasmagoric, comes from following the majority of the world's population. As long as we feel belonged to preponderancy, our nonsense will absolutely make sense.

You are little, just a baby, and butterflies flutter in your stomach. You do not understand. "What is happening?" you ask, but your inexperienced mind can't explain. You can't ask others -- you don't know, not yet, how to put it in words. You grow up, and now you have learned many words for it. But you have also learned not to talk about it. Living your life has become daunting ... exhausting. Your family worries, so you pretend to be alright. You gather courage and talk to those who will listen. Sometimes they don't judge, they try to empathise. They try hard, but they fail. You feel more frustrated, more lonely. It never goes away, You are high and happy, then you think of it, and slowly your happiness fades. You are low and sad, and you feel relieved. You know it is going to happen, you can't help but feel this way. It gets suppressed, but it is there. You are afraid, cautious, for you know it is going to resurface, When you are least expecting. Like a beast lurking at the edge, ready to pull you into the dark abyss. It strikes in that one unsuspecting moment. You don't want to kill yourself, Because it will hurt the people you love. But you really really ... really wish you never existed. Then one day you stand against it. Whether you like it or not, you are here ... you exist. If everything is meaningless, then why should you be afraid. So you decide to fight ... to write…. But this dread never goes away.

Sometimes a difficult goal you want to reach starts running towards you, and that's when you feel weirdly sad because all the tough struggles you planned to do to reach your goal suddenly become meaningless!

The glass is dead; living things are long volatility. The best way to verify that you are alive is by checking if you like variations. Remember that food would not have a taste if it weren’t for hunger; results are meaningless without effort, joy without sadness, convictions without uncertainty, and an ethical life isn’t so when stripped of personal risks.

Maybe it’s a part of the human condition, occasionally feeling that we are isolated dots of consciousness in a meaningless universe that’s whirling around outside of us like sad fireworks.

Just give yourself to me. Trust me. For one day. I’ll take care of you.” She exhales and stares up at me. She looks lost and broken. She looks sad and defeated. And I hate it. “One day of trust, Ashleigh. Just one day. And then tomorrow we can drive to LA and life can start again. But don’t let your pause end up meaningless. Make it count. Give me control. I’ll show you life goes on.

Fair…” Death mused. “You’d be amazed how often I hear that word, Frank Zhang, and how meaningless it is. Is it fair that your life will burn so short and bright? Was it fair when I guided your mother to the Underworld?” Frank staggered like he’d been punched. “No,” Death said sadly. “Not fair. And yet it was her time. There is no fairness in Death. If you free me, I will do my duty. But of course these shades will try to stop you.