Depression is stupid and not a thing that makes me a better writer. One time I went a whole year without writing and I stayed in bed and drank. Fuck your Bukowskisms. I want sunlight and love and running down some street I’ve never been on where it’s warm and cool at the same time and I’m smiling. I want nothing to ever be bad again- and I don’t mean that I want a life free of conflict, I mean that I want a life free of meaningless conflict. Not being able to will oneself to take a shower or leave the house is meaningless. There is nothing to be gained, no lesson to be learned from that kind of life. My heart is stale, my prose is stale. Give me fire if you want to hurt me. Give me something I can taste. There’s nothing romantic or mysterious about where I am. There’s nothing here worth holding onto.
What do you do when someone’s really cool and seems like a great friend but sometimes says kind of mildly offensive things and like it’s kind of fucked up but maybe they don’t mean it in a horrible way?
Stars are not small or gentle.
They are writhing and dying and burning.
They are not here to be pretty.
I am trying to learn from them.
I want to share your mouthful
I want to do all the things your lungs do so well
I’m gonna bed into you like a cat beds into a beanbag
Turn you inside out and lick you like a crisp packet
(Source: thatmusictasteslikeheaven, via eyever)