I am not afraid to die, but to think I haven’t lived. That terrifies me.
Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they’ve all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe.
I’m just tired; I just want the world to be quiet for a bit.
I like it when it rains hard. It sounds like white noise everywhere, which is like silence but not empty.
You can be lonely even when you are loved by many people, since you are still not anybody’s one and only.
I love the rain. I love how it softens the outlines of things. The world becomes softly blurred, and I feel like I melt right into it.
I want to explain how exhausted I am. Even in my dreams. How I wake up tired. How I’m being drowned by some kind of black wave.
I said nothing for a time, just ran my fingertips along the edge of the human-shaped emptiness that had been left inside me.
Socializing is as exhausting as giving blood. People assume we loners are misanthropes just sitting thinking, ‘Oh, people are such a bunch of assholes,’ but it’s really not like that. We just have a smaller tolerance for what it takes to be with others. It means having to perform. I get so tired of communicating.
I’m still depressed, but how depressed I am varies, which is good.
Much of the time, it’s a comfortable numbness that just makes things feel muted. Other times, I’m standing in the shower or something and I can feel the nothingness hurtling toward me at eight thousand miles per hour and there’s nothing I can really do aside from let it happen and wait until it goes away again.
If you ever figure me out, please teach me who I am.
How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?
It’s amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart.