One of the scariest feelings in life is when you realise you aren’t afraid to die. You don’t look when you cross the road anymore. When you take pills you take however many come out. You’re not afraid when you hear those creepy creaking noises in your house anymore, because you hope they’ll get you. You seek out dangerous things, because you want to die. You stop caring about yourself, totally and completely. Nothing about you matters anymore, and at some point you look at yourself and become scared of yourself. Because you’re a monster, one who only hurts itself. And that’s scary.
It’s 2:48pm on a Sunday. I’m lying in bed, face first into my pillow, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts and this bright orange shirt I hate. And I want to die.
Everyone thinks they prefer texting. They think that it gives them more time to think about what they want to…
like this if I can randomly talk to you whenever
are Eric bana and Matthew settle the same person because I think they are
I want to write something where the motive is that befriended overwhelming wave of emotion. Yet, I just don’t feel enough to construct a flow of words and I find that sad because it is those sunken moments of dread, dejection and woe that I feel most alive.