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.
I want to tell you I miss
you with no subtext. No guilt,
no anger, no expectation
that you’ll fix it. I don’t want
you to feel bad or to tell
me it will get better. This
is where we are meant to be
right now – me apart from you,
my hands a little empty and
my heart a little sad.
I just miss you.
I wanted you to know.
anne, fyi  (via utterdiscord)