I think in some ways depression is a virtue. Other times I think it’s a curse. Living with this thing inside of myself that I will never be able to get rid of. A chemical imbalance they say. Some mornings when I wake, I think I can’t do it. That it’s something that I’m prolonging in hopes that it will get better but in fact, it never will. Something that will get easier. I think of giving up. I think of giving up more than I think of carrying on. But if every person in this w

What if the life I am waiting on is being consumed by the act of waiting on it? For all my life, I have wondered my purpose. My reasoning for being on this earth. I’ve gone through stages of life that nobody, especially not someone my age, should ever go through. I have been through the wreckages of life with all their might. I’ve lost my friends, my loved ones but I also lost myself along the way. Who am I? I search in the Library of ‘what ifs’. I see stories where I win the

A Short Story. I could break any minute. Just one touch and I might shatter into a million pieces. I am made of glass, yet I take the risk of being broken. On the outside, I look like your average person: a happy young child rooting for the world around her. But each night when I return home, I must glue my fragments back together from where people have pulled me apart. Three simple words can break you as much as they can heal you; are you okay? They ask. Perfect. I say every