You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everyone else, and we are all part of the same compost pile.
He laughed. I suddenly wanted to laugh, to laugh with him, to sit here, or maybe outside in the rain, and just laugh with him. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even smile.
Every morning, we get a chance to be different. A chance to change. A chance to be better. Your past is your past. Leave it there. Get on with the future part.
Imagine your icon just appearing outside your window at night and just staring with a hollow possessed expression and remaining there for hours in the dark despite you having thick drapes and everything, and then you fall asleep and when you wake up they’re looming over your bed and staring at you disappointedly.
melancholy leaves me breathless.