The one where I say things to you that are maybe also a little to me.

Sooner or later, the floor starts to look less welcoming than it did before. It used to be this great spot – a corner, maybe – where you could sit next to the stereo, the saddest songs on repeat and just sort of be. It wasn’t a good sort of being. It wasn’t a healthy sort of being, it was just simply being and even then, just barely.

You can feel yourself sinking into it, sinking into the sadness the same way we’ve eased ourselves into swimming pools. You don’t want to help it along, but you do. You push play on the saddest fucking song you can find and sit in a pot full of fucked up feelings. Sometimes the sadness is the loudest thing that’s out there, and that’s it.

You can look at a situation logically and say, hey, bitch, get the fuck up and do something with yourself, but it’s not that fucking simple. The sitting, the stewing, the hurting. That’s the simple shit. It’s terribly difficult too, in its own way, but mostly you don’t have a choice.

So you sit and you stew, stuck in a sick vat of whatever cards you’ve been dealt, real or perceived, fucked or not. Maybe you talk it out, maybe one day you just get the fuck off the floor and realize that hey, you’re not shit. Because you’re not. You’re fucking beautiful. You’re amazing. You’re funny and you’re smart and you’re great.

That’s it.

You’re fucking great. You’re brilliant. You’re loved, so much, by so many people.

I know.

I know it’s hard to see it. I know it’s easy to sink, to drown in it, to be a bystander to a terrible sort of sadness that chokes the life out of sunlight, I know. I fucking get it.

But shit.

It’s you.