You’re like a grey sky. You’re beautiful, even though you don’t want to be.
Sometimes I wonder if my heart is like a black hole–it’s so dense that there’s no room for light, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still suck me in.
..because never in my life have I ever been picked when there was another alternative.
I wonder if that’s how darkness wins, by convincing us to trap it inside ourselves, instead of emptying it out.I don’t want it to win.
Guidance counselors always love to say, ‘Just think positively,’ but that’s impossible when you have this thing inside of you, strangling every ounce of happiness you can muster. My body is an efficient happy-though-killing machine.
I wish I could draw you how I see you. I’d draw a boy with the most magnetic smile, and the kindest hands, and eyes that are gloomy, but can sometimes be bright. I’d draw a boy who deserves to see the ocean.
He can’t make me love him when he’s going to leave me.
Maybe we all have darkness inside of us and some of us are better at dealing with it than others.
Anyone who has actually been that sad can tell you that there’s nothing beautiful or literary or mysterious about depression.
Something inside me clicks. It’s like I’ve spent my whole life fiddling with a complicated combination only to discover I was toying with the wrong lock.
Do you believe in other universes? Do you think there’s another dimension where we’re happy?
Yes, I’m broken. And yes, he’s broken. But the more we talk about it, the more we share our sadness, the more I start to believe that there could be a chance to fix us, a chance that we could save each other.
I can feel everything. And I want to keep feeling everything. Even the painful, awful, terrible things. Because feeling things is what lets us know that we’re alive.
I’ve been thinking a lot aboit the energy of the universe. And if energy can’t ever be created or destroyed, only transferred, what do you think happens to people’s energy once they die?
There’s no saving him from his deep hole. There’s no saving me from my black slug.
I bet if you cut open my stomach, the black slug of depression would slide out.
He knows what he’ll find if he digs deeper. there’s no rush to unpack my insides. he understands there is nothing special about emptiness, nothing interesting about depression.
I don’t know how to describe it, but the more I stare at him, the more I see his grief wrapped around him like shackles he can never take off.
I can’t wait until they don’t have me here anymore.
Nothing scares me more than a failed attempt. The last thing I want is to end up in a wheelchair, eating pulverized food and being watched around the clock by some sassy nurse who has a not-so-secret obsession with cheesy reality TV.
It’s hard to see where we’re going since it’s now dark, and I wonder if in some ironic twist of fate, we’ll soar over the cliff without even realizing it. Like the universe’s final joke: you can’t plan your death, even when you try.
I think he’s looking for comfort, but I don’t have any to give.