I’m not brave, I never was. Neither am I strong nor spirited. Never was and I don’t think I ever will be.
This is my depression. The unbearable thought of even looking at myself.
Hangovers demand a light at the end of the tunnel, a reason to go on and actually leave your bed.
It’s remembering how you felt in a moment, vividly. The same shivers on your skin, ripple through your veins, smile forming inadvertently. It’s reliving it but this time from the outside.
We can relive and re-experience social pain more vividly than we can physical pain.
“Let me know when and where do you wanna meet,” read the last line.
Sometimes the whole of who we perceive ourselves to be is nothing more than how we fit into the contexts of what we mean to other people.
Let’s be happy, okay?
I can’t stop crying.
If I truly affirm everything, feel that everything that happens is as it’s supposed to happen because it did in fact happen, what do I make of the intense grief I experience with the loss of a loved one?