We are the ants

I'd never felt ashamed of who I was with him. Jesse had loved me.
But that's a lie, isn't it? If Jesse had loved me, he wouldn't have left me.

A person can become a part of you as real as your arm or leg, and even though Jesse is dead, I still feel the weight of that phantom limb. I have thousand amazing memories of Jesse, but his suicide is leaking into those recollections, poisoning our past. I can hardly remember him without hating him for taking his life and leaving me alone in mine.

I hate Jesse for leaving me behind. If he asked, I would have walked into the air with him.

Before Jesse, I could deal with being Space Boy. He knew about the abductions but never made me feel like a freak. Before Jesse, I knew that no matter what happened to me, I could soldier on so long as we were together. But I'm living in an After Jesse world where I ache from missing him and nothing makes sense.

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

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.

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

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