If you know someone who’s depressed, please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn’t a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather. Try to understand the blackness, lethargy, hopelessness, and loneliness they’re going through. Be there for them when they come through the other side. It’s hard to be a friend to someone who’s depressed, but it is one of the kindest, noblest and best things you will ever do.

One of These Days" by Owen

One of these days, I’ll make some money and buy myself those things that I want. Acrylic paints, acoustic guitar strings, a new bicycle seat. I might ride over to your house each night. One of these days, I’ll get a real job. One that actually pays, like my dad had. And you know my father, the bartender, he used to wear a suit to work before he hit the drink. The old man, he used to do a lot of things. One of these days, I’ll give up and give into the man.

The Silence (Acoustic)" by Avalanche City

I remember a conversation, at a restaurant
With a friend of mine, he’d a successful mind
And he told me of his life
And the plans he’d made to come this far
Had gone so well and now we’re all so proud of him
And he told me how
But I couldn’t bear to listen

Cause all my life I’ve heard
Of the dreams of the organized
To be the best in the company
To win the awards but that’s not me
Cause all my life all I ever wanted
Was a love that lasted longer than the silence

“I can’t read books any more. Who has the time?”

Two weeks ago, in the afternoon, Amanda said to me, “I can’t read books any more. Who has the time?” It was the day after Oliver had left, and we were in this little café in the industrial part of the city. “Who can concentrate any more?” she said, stirring her coffee. “Who reads? Do you read?” (I shook my head.) “Somebody must read, I guess. You see all those books around in store windows, and there are those clubs. Somebody’s reading,” she said. “Who? I don’t know anybody who reads.”

That’s what she said, apropos of nothing - that is, we weren’t talking about books, we were talking about our lives. Books had nothing to do with it. 

Menudo by Raymond Carver
from Elephant 

Why Georgia" by John Mayer

Rent a room and I fill the spaces with
wood and places to make it feel like home,
but all I feel’s alone.

It might be a quarter life crisis
or just the stirring in my soul
either way

I wonder sometimes
about the outcome

of a still verdictless life.

Am I living it right?