I don’t think people love me. They love versions of me I have spun for them, versions of me they have construed in their minds. The easy versions of me, the easy parts of me to love.
She’s sweet, but she’s fucked-up.
|—||Rushmore (1998) Dir. Wes Anderson (via skippingthewitches)|
Do you ever want to cry because of your anxiety. You can’t enjoy the simple things in life like disk golfing with your lover in the park. You’re too concerned about sucking, everyone watching you, all the judgement. So you start freaking out because of it. Why.
I am the ghost in the shadows, I am the fear of the dark. I am the murderer of apathy, an angel that’s fallen.
I am the psycho the sinner, I am what you can’t escape. I am the splinter underneath your skin, I am a monster.
He thinks I suffer from depression. But I’m just quiet. Solitude and depression are like swimming and drowning. In school many years ago, I learned that flowers sometimes unfold inside themselves
|—||Simon Van Booy, Love Beings in Winter: Five Stories (via quoted-books)|