We'll see.

Eyes that don't cry, scribbled on a thousand pages.
Sometimes wondering if it'd better if this heart would stop, if it'd be better to march autonomously through life without smile or frown.
Proof of my existence has already been wiped from that notebook, and it hurts a little. I'm confused and cautious, my expression must be carefully blank.

Breathing cold air is best after all, I tell myself, as I fidget in a snowy field. A scene that runs rampant through my idle mind, as I click clack cluck my way through a shitty cellphone diary, and empty out all my thoughts there so I don't have to carry them around.
Yet I can't seem to empty myself to match how empty I feel, no matter how many words are clicked, clacked, or even clucked. I can't rid myself of this heart that feels so stupidly whenever I dare to breathe tropically.
I hate this, right? This not heartache, or whatever it is. Whatever it needs to be.

Oh if my heart could write songs so blankly, so I could wrap my fingers around a fretboard and flitter flutter out words that might help empty my soul of it's perpetual need to emote.
I want to express myself fully. I want to stand in front of a crowd so massive and overtaking that I can't even consider it human. To let my nervousness melt before a buzzing of humanity, an idea that appeals to me while one on one interviews and small gatherings terrify me.
Rippling gunshots through suicidal slashers, my heart was never really whole with all the dazed father figures, all the intoxicated blisters of transistors. I don't know how to pour every syllable of myself out onto a sheet of paper, or a box of internet. I just know that I want to try try try try try try try to type my way out of a lonely coma.
Coma, coma coma coma, coma. I wonder if the comatose feel.
I'd take physically comatose over emotionally comatose any day, I'd like to think. But I have no way of knowing that's true.

Nightmares cannot be expressed.

Subtlety is a way of life almost, sometimes always almost. I don't know what to do, because my insecurity, my fear is gripping me. It squeezes my throat shut, and leaves me to gasp in wonderment what anything is supposed to be. Should I crawl back into an emotional coma, or try to fight it out this time? Does it matter? Will it matter? Who cares.

I want to be a robot, living life autonomously.

I want, I want, I want life.

I'm not sure if two weeks is enough to feel this way, or if just opening my heart up to someone for two weeks is what's making me this scared and hopeful, and unsure.
But I think this is what I get, for being me.
Maybe it's life's way of saying "This is what you get, for shutting me out for so long. Grow up."

At least when you move on, I'll know it's possible.
It's nice to have some forewarning.

My brain keeps buzzing, I'm just trying to empty it all out onto this thing. I don't really know what's what, or what isn't what. I wish I had money for college, but I don't really want to go. I wish, I wish, I wish.
I don't really know what I want from life anymore, actually. Well, I do..

I wish I could express myself.
Through art, through music, through you.
I'll figure myself out somehow, right?
Or will I just keep click, clack, clucking my way through nonsensicals and hope it ends somewhere not as lonely as at feels right now.

We'll see.