Per Sognare Nell’estate

Guys I am like 80% sure I am happy and no longer depressed but I don’t actually like it? Its. a hollow happiness bc all of my passions were formed when I was mentally ill and I have no sense of identity anymore now that I am recovered ish, I fear that this crisis will work me back up into a depressive fit if I don’t find some meaningful enrichment soon

I wait every year for summer, and it is usually good, but it is never as good as that summer I am always waiting for.

Henri Lebasque, Village au bord de la riviere | Martha Gellhorn

I can’t believe Russell T. Davies just invented camp

Charlotte Eriksson

Marti Healy

Hal Borland, Sundial of the Seasons

Terri Guillemets

Roald Dahl

When there is no more depression like a stone around my neck, rare and treasured happiness becomes commonplace, and the euphoria of joy now feels like nothing, nothing at all, and contentment is not a mountain peak overlooking a panoramic view, but a flat and featureless plain. With no depression hiding me in a little pit, away from the sun, there is no shade or shelter, Just the glare, an undefended and uncharted expanse with room for dread to creep in unhindered, for uncertainty to reign when all directions look the same, and when there is no more up, no more climbing out, how do you decide where to go?

Guys I took a nap in the middle of the day and had a such a vivid dream about such Devastating and Heartbreaking Loss??? And it was understated but brutal and I was driving across the sky to get to someone who in the end wouldn’t come back with me and what did I do to deserve waking up with this rock in my belly? It’s 5:30 on a Thursday and I haven’t had a break up in years :/ silly self torturing brain <3

There is so much love and joy in my life right now!!! And it all comes with an expiration date!!! How can I brave this season knowing it will be gone in the blink of an eye? How can I be brave enough to give away my heart knowing I will all too soon pack my bags and have to leave it behind? To love is to lose and lose and lose, and there is no other version of this story, and this joy is a mountain top I am about to fall off of. Someone catch me, please.

I am so happy I don’t ever want this period of my life to end and I haven’t slept in 38 hours I’m afraid of losing even a second

Journal

And its all in my head, (our past, our future)

I can’t get you out of my head

Mind reader, you can see inside my head

Seeing you it all comes to a head

The thought comes into my head

I’ll love you until I’m dead

There’s a part of me that’ll always love you.

The part of me that’s still 13, the part of me that was the beginning of who I am now, not the child but the person. You watched the change, you changed yourself, and we survived that terrible process together, the death of the old us, the horrors of becoming, the fear and loneliness and hope and desire.

And that’s the foundation of who I am today, and you’re there too, imbedded in the cornerstone, along with all the joys and disasters, and I can’t not love you. I love you like I love summertime, or old musicals, or a favorite book. But it’s more than that. I don’t love you like a friend, or a brother, or a lover. Maybe I love you like I love myself. You’re a fragment. You’re a coin I flip, tails for a grudge and disappointment and bitterness, heads for overwhelming tenderness.

And our bodies never meet, you’re so careful to stay a few feet away, but the meeting of our minds is tangible enough for the brush of your fingers to seem irrelevant. And it’s so tragic and so romantic and then tragic again, isn’t it? You’re divorced and too young for that, I’m a virgin and too old for that, and we won’t say those words but we know it in the sidelong glances, in the shapes we draw around in our conversations.

In the scandalously intimate front seats of the car, in the dark and deserted corners on our evening walking, in the quiet of the galleries where we pick apart the art like it will tell us something about ourselves, I can’t bear to look at you for fear of what I’d do. And we’re two ships in the night, a long day together and then a long year apart, and maybe a year becomes forever, because despite our best efforts and egos we aren’t psychic, or perfect, but I think, I hope, we both want otherwise.

And I think about other things too, about your fingertips through my hair, about how we’d laugh, and it would be so strange, wouldn’t it? But if you were the last man on earth, I think we’d be grateful for the apocalypse to leave us to our own devices. And you’re nothing without an audience but I would laugh enough for a whole auditorium, just you and me and the end of the world. But these are foolish things, flights of fancy that die in the sunlight, in the statistics. So I stop thinking about them, about you. And I can go without thinking about you forever, but you’re always there anyway, in the map of my subconscious, in chess and in that christmas card, in showtunes and in shame and in shivers, in dialects and old sci-fi and always, always, in dreams. I hope I’m more than just an old face to you.

Tonight’s self-sabotage in the form of staying up way too late is soundtracked by everybody wants to rule the world which I am absolutely losing my mind to, the melody is so -/({#%£?{#£}~!}]€£%{, that is to say an incompressible yummy heartbreaking work of genius, how can it be so happy and so sad at once? Why do I feel so emotional about this? Screee