I was feeling kind of bad about myself, so I made a thing.
Just remember: wildflowers might be odd-looking, poisonous, unpopular, too brash, too frail, too much or too little of so many things, but they are still beautiful, and so are you. And someone, somewhere will appreciate that.
I kept pushing against the black, though, almost a reflex. I wasn’t trying to lift it. I was just resisting. Not allowing it to crush me completely. I wasn’t Atlas, and the black felt as heavy as a planet; I couldn’t shoulder it. All I could do was not be entirely obliterated. It was sort of the pattern to my life–I’d never been strong enough to deal with the things outside my control, to attack the enemies or outrun them. To avoid the pain. Always human and weak, the only thing I’d ever been able to do was keep going. Endure. Survive. It had been enough up to this point. It would have to be enough today. I would endure this until help came. I knew Edward would be doing everything he could. He would not give up. Neither would I. I held the blackness of nonexistence at bay by inches.