I once read in my physics book that the universe begs to be observed, that energy travels and transfers when people pay attention. Maybe that’s what love really boils down to–having someone who cares enough...

Maybe we all have darkness inside of us and some of us are better at dealing with it than others.

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.

You’re like a grey sky. You’re beautiful, even though you don’t want to be.

I think he’s looking for comfort, but I don’t have any to give.

What people never understand is that depression isn’t about the outside; it’s about the inside.

I don’t like songs about wanting things. I like songs about letting go, saying goodbye.

I spend a lot of time wondering what dying feels like. What dying sounds like. If I’ll burst like those notes, let out my last cries of pain, and then go silent forever. Or maybe...

I bet if you cut open my stomach, the black slug of depression would slide out.

I will be stronger than my sadness.

Anyone who has actually been that sad can tell you that there’s nothing beautiful or literary or mysterious about depression.

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 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.

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...

He was fucking sad. That’s it. That’s the point. He knows life is never going to get any different for him. That there’s no fixing him. It’s always going to be the same monotonous depressing...

..because never in my life have I ever been picked when there was another alternative.

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.

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.

I can’t wait until they don’t have me here anymore.