I think a part of me will always be a little sad; it’s a red line going through my entire being. Not like it’s healthy when sadness consumes you, but it’s comforting to recognize yourself in melancholia.
It’s difficult to put into words, but it’s every song and movie and book and poem and artwork that makes you feel so fiercely that it’s almost unbearable, it’s sleepless nights, it’s Sisyphus that has to push that fucking rock forever, it’s countless blood tests and visits to the doctor, it’s cold hands and headaches, it’s frustration that eats you up, it’s the feeling of waking up with a heavy heart, it’s a restlessness so deep inside that it’s indescribable, it’s the longing for something more than this, it’s not being able to breathe for months, it’s a paralyzing fear of death, it’s the feeling of it never becoming summer again as if time is water running through your fingers, it’s an overwhelming sense of dread, it’s your body dissolving in the bathtub, it’s the thought of existing and to just be without being in control, it’s not being able to hold it together much longer, it’s when you’ve never been this sorrowful ever before, it’s when the sun is setting and it’s getting harder and harder not to cry on the bus home, it’s a desire to be seen, it’s the fear of it all getting bad again, and it’s the knowledge that you’ve survived every bad day you’ve ever fucking had.
Things could be a lot worse for me, and I’m glad they aren’t.
