We Are the Ants

Your entire sense of self-worth is predicated upon your belief that you matter, that you matter to the universe. But you don't. Because we are the ants.

Sometimes I think gravity may be death in disguise. Other times I think gravity is love, which is why love's only demand is that we fall.

I was diamond on the outside, and I would not break.
Inside, though, I was already broken.

Grief is an ocean, and guilt the undertow that pulls me beneath the waves and drowns me.

That's the problem with memories: you can visit them, but you can't live in them.

We remember the past, live in the present, and write the future.

Depression isn't a war you win. It's a battle you fight every day. You never stop, never get to rest.

Milkshakes make the world seem less shitty.

I saw the world from the stars' point of view, and it looked unbearably lonely.

Dreams are hopeful because they exist as pure possibility. Unlike memories, which are fossils, long dead and buried deep.

We may not get to choose how we die, but we can chose how we live. The universe may forget us, but it doesn't matter. Because we are the ants, and we'll keep marching on.

I could write my name across the sky, and it would be in invisible ink.

“When the days are darkest, dear, you latch on to happiness wherever you find it.”

If a kid looks like he doesn’t give a shit, it’s not because he doesn’t believe in himself anymore; it’s because no one else believes in him.

In the grammar of our relationship, I am the object.

If the world needed someone as pathetic as me to save it, we were better off dead.

Jesse once told me that if I focused on a fixed point on the horizon, I would be okay, but Jesse hanged himself in his bedroom last year, so the value of his advice is dubious at best.

When you break down the things we do every day to their component pieces, you begin to understand how ridiculous they are.

What if I don’t give a shit about the world? I’d say that’s pretty fucking sad. Why? Because the world is so beautiful.

“Do you honestly believe any of this is important? That in a hundred years, one of your great-great-great-whatevers is going to write about how you went to a party, got hammered, and tried to avoid being groped by every boy with hands? None of this matters, Audrey. We’re all fucked.”