Omg ur all so cool
No time and energy for all this bullshit
I feel as if I lost everything - except, I own nothing.
I think about all of the things I write about. Most of which are morbid and depressing. And I wonder why that is - why every character pasted onto the page carries a heavy burden, dragging along like an old man with a hunchback struggling to find balance. It’s all downward. And I think why all of which I write is morose and dejected is because all the dark and horrifying thoughts and realities are the ones I want gone - I want them out of me. Because the happy things, the memories filled with joy and ecstasy - those are the ones I want to keep, buried in a safe place within. Plus, happiness never made for a good story. Because when we read we become the narrator, we become the individual who is suffering, drowning in their pessimism, and it is their sadness and emptiness we empathize with - because we are screaming for someone to have words for the things we feel, to describe the anguish, the pain, the relentless let downs. If there’s one thing we will never get it’s someone else’s happiness.