There is something about my room that seems to fuel my habitual sadness. There is something, about the way the light doesn’t shine through the windows, something about the mountains of pillows that seem to be calling me into an infinite lifetime of warmth and sadness, something about my desk hidden underneath a wooden box of darkness containing my midnight thoughts scrawled out onto crumpled up sticky notes, something about the anthems of cry babies and alphabet boys that play on repeat and surround my room with an aura of  indie tumblr stereotypes. When I arrive here in this forum of happy sadness I am filled with a certain type of joy. Not the kind you get when you ace a hard test or when you someone compliments you. This kind of joy comes from giving in. When the war between you and your inner self finally ends and you become a victim to your own sadness. There is something about my room that makes my depression bearable…