I told them that my depression was beautiful, that in my presence, flowers quivered with the fear of being ugly. And I told them that the stars were no longer worth watching, there was no use in taking pictures of sunsets, because my depression was the Aphrodite in a world full of ugly things. They said that depression was not beautiful or poetic or happy. They told me that it was the root of all ugly. But if depression is ugly, and it consumes my entire being, what does that make me? So please, for the love of God, let me believe that there's beauty in being broken.
