I know what I’m doing when I let it in. I press play on the same pathetic songs, I flip to the same pages where people fall apart and never come back together. I call it comfort, but maybe it’s just weakness: some masochistic habit dressed up as nostalgia.

Sadness gives you something to hold. And somewhere along the way, you start to believe that this is the real you, and anything else—joy, ease, hope—is just performance.

So yeah, I listen to sad music. I read sad books. And not because I like it. But because I like knowing what to expect.

@TeenageLife1111