I have accustomed myself to the bitterness of black tea, so is my tongue and so is my nose to the nice aroma; and so is the music quietly filling my room with desolate sighs. I’m craving a late-night conversation, or revelation, or simple consolation.. whichever comes first.

To any depressed people following me -

I just want to put this out here in case there’s anyone who feels and experiences depression and any sorts of emotion instability/ies.

I swore that I would kill myself before ever hitting 23 because life was so miserable and I didn’t think things would ever get better. And like, life is still miserable, don’t get me wrong, I’m not gonna tell you “it gets better”, but I want to let you know from experience that life gets a LITTLE more fun. When you learn how to drive, when you start making your own money, things seem a little different. Things change. I’m not saying you won’t be sad anymore because chances are you probably will be, but you’ll experience new things and you have the chance to interact with new groups of people. It’s kinda fun and kinda cool and you deserve to at least experience the changes before ending things permanently. 

That feel when your day is going fine but then you get reminded of something traumatic few years ago and you start crying and can’t stop and literally dying would be better than this. 

A l o n e

At least in hell it's burning. I'm not even burning. I am void, empty, souless, nothing.

Nothing makes me feel motivated.

Nothing makes me want to live.

There is nothing I look forward to.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

I am nothing.

I wish someone would tell me to jump. To let go of everything here on Earth. To finally end my suffering. That's when I feel as though someone finally cares.

I am so sick of people telling me everything will be OK. That I need to stay strong, stay positive. That I am an inspiration, that I am creative and talented and above all else, loved.

Bullshit.

Look at me.

I'm alone.

I should write.
But all the passion inside me,
has been burned out.

It’s so easy for people to say ‘just stop worrying’.
But when you have over a gazillion thoughts running through your head all at once it’s so much harder to 'just stop worrying’.

I write about love like I know it so well, but to be honest, love and I have never officially met.

I didn't care enough.

That was my problem. People slipped through my fingers like sand, hobbies became a thing of the past, dreams were for people with hope and love belonged to those who deserved it. And I guess I didn’t care enough to deserve any of those things.

My veins bleed ink and my soul breathes deep.

And sometimes I cannot help but to wonder... if writing is supposed to be therapeutic, then why do I constantly feel like I’m ripping open my skin with animalistic claws? Am I writing to remember, or to get rid of these memories?