Depression is the reason you think I am so successful.
I am never good enough.
My grades are never perfect enough
My weight is never low enough
My comments are never witty enough
My photographs are never the best
My poems are never decent
My life is meaningless unless I create massive change.
My life is disposable with each second that passes.
And that is why you think I am such a success.
How odd it is for people to compliment you and be jealous of some things when you youself only do these things because of your depression?
What a conundrum.
How odd it is to inspire another when you are the biggest disappointment you know?
How odd it is to have someone give your life value when you cannot?