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Am I the only person that sees those pictures where images are carved into book pages or have writing all over the original text and just hurts inside?

I’d care if the person I reblogged this from committed suicide.

Maybe all these desperate clashing feelings I’m feeling are just random brain activity, maybe I’m just delusional. But there are things that I miss, and things that I feel like I should be seeing and feeling every time I turn around, and I just keep turning and turning and turning, and there’s nothing.

Lost at Sea, by Bryan Lee O’Malley (via barely-a-vapour) —

If you saw me across the room, how would you describe me?

Actually, that is what I looked like when I opened my mailbox today.