Gray

I wonder if killing yourself is the only thing you can control in your entire life, and that’s why it’s a sin. Because you’re beating God at his own game.

The next morning she replies with You have a spot in my heart that could never be replaced.
It makes me laugh just a little. It's funny the way people only say shit like that right before they replace you.

Life is just a series of containers, and ultimately, you end up in one.

Someone once told me that digging up the past has two sides: The pro is that you remember things you had forgotten about. Unfortunately, the con is the exact same thing.

She jots my answers down on a pad of paper, sighs, and says she won’t admit me to the hospital if I’ll sign a contract saying I won’t hurt myself. I actually laugh out loud at the thought that anyone depressed enough to kill himself would be stopped by a piece of paper. It’s like slitting your wrists over a sink so you won’t make a mess.

It's funny how fears hide inside other fears.
The fear of airplanes hiding inside the fear of heights hiding inside the fear of highways hiding inside the fear of cars hiding inside the fear of elevators hiding inside the fear of leaving my room hiding inside the fear of living.

We're alone together now, surrounded by a million strangers.

Life is cruel and unfair and nothing more than a series of cosmic coincidences. We are powerless to stop it.

Life is merely a numbers game, a series of odds, and eventually we all lose. To think otherwise is foolish. But if we didn’t, why would anyone ever bother getting out of bed in the morning?

She does something to me, something no one else on the planet can do. She makes me normal, she makes me free.

I am an addict. I am an idiot. My sickness is severe.

We were just kids then. We’re basically still kids now. Only I feel older somehow, more hollowed out.

I’ve always been a dreamer, have always believed in the power of love and art and loud, life-affirming rock and roll, but, for the first time, I’m starting to have doubts. Can a dream even exist in reality? Or does it turn to stone the second it leaves your mind?

I am a corpse bored with my own funeral. I live like a gypsy, only with less gold and maybe more curses. People say I can’t run away from my problems. I am the problem. Well, that’s just shit because I’ve spent twenty-seven years on the run and can’t remember most of the problems that started this. Maybe that’s been the problem all along. It’s funny.

It’s funny how easy it is to sleep with someone, but how hard it is to sleep next to someone. It’s too intimate.