Gay💪irl
There was a time when what I wanted from you was anything. Literally anything you’d give me- two minutes of your time, a high five, anything. And what I ended up getting was so, so much more. And I’m never going to get over that for the rest of my life because you made me feel so lucky. But now I’ve been trying to figure out what I want from you next and I don’t think it’s anything. And I’ll never forget that you were at one point everything I ever wanted, I’ll seriously never forget that, but I think what I want now is different. So I guess it’s sad but true that we all move on and grow and change and what we want and like is never permanent, whether it be hobbies, careers, clothes, or even people.
This dog was depressed for 2 years after his best friend died, but then this duck showed up
“Hey friend sorry I’m late, I reincarnated in a part of the world I’m not familiar with so it took me a while to find you again”
I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who thought that.
i am still in love
with the memories
of what we were
and the hopes
of what could have been
had you stayed
i am stuck
in the past
replaying our mistakes
desperately searching
for a different ending
preferably one
where we
do not end at all
if i could rewrite our story, i would.
“When I first met you, I thought you were my soulmate. When we said our last goodbye, my heart shattered beyond recognition. Time took us away from each other and then distance intervened. But even then, I knew that the universe would someday bring you back to me. So with a piece of me missing, I went on to live my life and you did the same. And when you stumbled in the same coffee shop as me three years later, it felt like meeting you for the first time all over again. And when we kissed two weeks later, I realized that the magic was still there, harvesting inside of me, waiting to be awakened by you.”—
I was right about you
You are my soulmate
“When they talk about the tortured genius, somebody always brings up Van Gogh— how he swallowed yellow paint because he wanted to put the sunshine inside himself. How his psychosis was probably the result of lead poisoning. They call him a miracle, but what I see is a man who was so sad, he found a beautiful way to kill himself. They say, “it’s awful isn’t it?” They say, “It’s always the talented ones who go before their time.” And me, a nine year old kid who’s always been told they were so talented wonders when I am going to die. We study them in school, the tortured artists. Look at all the poets who killed themselves what would their work have been without their depression? It’s it beautiful, isn’t it sad? As if depression is a parlor trick— pull it out at parties, impress all your friends. As if depression isn’t seeing how long you can go between showers before somebody notices or pizza rolls for dinner three nights in a row and then nothing the night after, because going to the store is an impossibility that you have not yet gathered the courage to conquer. It is the least beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and we call it the mark of an artist to stand in the center of an ocean and see nothing but desert. To be seated at a feast, but still swallowing sand. Depression is the yellow paint, the yellow paint, THE YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT, THE YELLOW PAINT— Art is a coping mechanism. Van Gogh is good because when he had nothing, he had paint. When he was empty, he had paint. When the world was awful, he had paint. When he hated himself, he didn’t hate the paint. He whitewashed over his own masterpieces, because it was never about being famous, it was about doing the one thing that made sense when everything else didn’t. And they say, “without his illness, we never would have gotten all—this.” because they value his art more than his sanity because god forbid you lead a happy life and leave nothing to remember you by.”— VINCENT, by Ashe Vernon
