There are two reasons why people don’t talk about things; either it doesn’t mean anything to them, or it means everything
Depression is like a bruise that never goes away. A bruise in your mind. You just got to be careful not to touch it where it hurts. It’s always there, though.
You think ‘Okay, I get it, I’m prepared for the worst’, but you hold out that small hope, see, and that’s what fucks you up. That’s what kills you.
You have to learn how to care about people without taking on all of their problems.
The truth is that the more intimately you know someone, the more clearly you’ll see their flaws. That’s just the way it is. This is why marriages fail, why children are abandoned, why friendships don’t last. You might think you love someone until you see the way they act when they’re out of money or under pressure or hungry, for goodness’ sake. Love is something different. Love is choosing to serve someone and be with someone in spite of their filthy heart. Love is patient and kind, love is deliberate. Love is hard. Love is pain and sacrifice, it’s seeing the darkness in another person and defying the impulse to jump ship.
Where exactly do you put your hands on somebody who hurts everywhere?
Home is something that happens to a person, he said.
(You wake from a whiskey-fuelled daze, still in awe of everybody you were best friends with the night before but whom you couldn’t - for the life of you - remember the names of now.)
Somebody once looked at me like they couldn’t believe that they were looking at me.
(When he looks at me.)
Laying in bed you spread my arms apart from my cocaine-fuelled haze, bandages on the backs of my feet, the life slowly emptying out of my eyes like drops of water from a jar.
(Somebody once told me that they didn’t care that the earth spins ‘round, I could see their sadness.)
Sadness is something we can see, he said.
(We hurt when we are hurt, she said.)
I am the drifter on the side of the road and you are the passenger seat of the first car that stops for me.
My past feels hollow, blank by my synchronized breathing.
(My chest heaving, lungs black.)
You looked at me like you didn’t believe you were looking at me.
I tried my best to be brave.
And soon you will be the man sitting on the curb of a street in a city far, far away from here, books in a cardboard box.
And I will be the lost one standing at the bar buying an over-priced drink, not speaking.
(You will see that life gets like this, sometimes.)
Graves are deeper than the chest cavity.
You awake by my side.
Everything feels like home but nothing feels homely.
Home is what happens to a person, he said.
I said Yes. I said this (not speaking for days.)
But I have never been whole, stitched together with coffee and nicotine.
I’ll cry out.
I’ll leave the window open.
I will try not to need.
And you will try, and both of us, both of us -
we will fail.
(We will fail harder and harder each time again.)
I’ll leave the window open as I scream. The neighbours will hear my sorrow.
All the people will hear our sorrow.
(I tried my best to stay brave.)
Heartbreak is an audible sound, didn’t you know.
(It is not a vase crashing to the floor. It is a flower breaking from its stem.)
We hurt when we are hurt, she said.
Home is not a place but a person, he said.
I can’t find a home in this galaxy, I said.
How we are so close to surprising ourselves once more.
We don’t believe fire is an element.
It only exists within ourselves.
I will, one day, take you under my wing, he says.
Do you see it? The heart opening from its valve.
Only people like us can see it. Colour-blindness, but for the lonely.
I can’t ever find a home in this galaxy.
So we will try (we will try)
not to need.
So we will fail time and time again.