I've never found anything so destructive to the apathy and lack of energy that comes with depression as movement. And music. And stories. What illness could hold me back when I have the power of fantasy on my side? And see you think that you're preventing me from making anything of myself, but living up to the accomplishments of Esther Earl is something to strive for. Not look down on.
And if I only manage to be happy and to bring some kind of happiness or comfort to someone else, I'll count myself a success. Because Hazel was right: What else matters in the end?
People say that the worst thing about you is the way that you can get into my head, but you better watch out. I don't think you'll stand much of a chance against swords wielded by hobbits and the courage of wizards when they're fighting with the words of friends. How could you ever think to come to victory when you're fighting all of the things that I love? Because I am so unironically enthusiastic about the metaphors in The Catcher in the Rye and the sound of rain on my window and the people I've found that care about me.
Only light can drive out darkness and, bitch, my sting glows when dementors are near.
