I wish I knew what was so wrong with me that people aren’t genuinely interested in me or want to be with me.
I want to get over this funk and stop feeling inadequate for once in my life.
My dreams are a cruel joke. They taunt me. Even in my dreams, I’m an idiot who knows he’s about to wake up to reality. If I could only avoid sleep. But I can’t. I try to tell myself what to dream. I try to dream that I am flying. Something free. It never works…
A few days ago while driving I noticed a small bird on the side of the road just sitting there. Seemingly waiting. I then noticed there had been another bird that was killed. Hit by a car, ran over, killed in someway. When cars would pass the other bird would fly away and then fly right back to stand there and wait. Waiting for the other bird that was no longer alive. I felt bad for the waiting bird. It reminded that all I’ve wanted in my life was that feeling. Someone who was there and cared for me like I was the only thing left. Just another bird waiting for me to fly away with them. Even after one of us has died.
(Source: paranoid-delusions, via fuckyeaheda)
Some days I just want to kill myself..
Most days.
Armand Rassenfosse, frontispiece from Le solitaire de la lune (The loner of the moon), by François de Curel, Paris, 1909.
(Source: archive.org)
(Source: oldbookillustrations)
It’s impossible to trust anyone.
Everybody has something to hide.
