no gentle median.

what a strange thing, to cry for nothing. more accurately, to begin to think of things from nothingness, and to cry because of them.

a short cry. a hard cry. your tears are so blinding, and they just won’t stop flowing out. what a damned thing, to cry. what a precise example of the weakness you constantly try to avoid. what a horrible thing to fill out a silly bulletin survey and have it say, “when was the last time you cried?”, and you not being able to say that you honestly can’t remember.

most of the time you feel so swell. it’s easy to surpass the thoughts about your failures and shortcomings. an old, dusty closet full of all the things you refuse to acknowledge. what is that, it doesn’t fit, throw it in the closet. can’t have that here, it’s not quite good enough and so…unacceptable. you don’t want to think on those things, and it’s much easier to not think of anything, so why not dump it in the back where no one can see it? you can’t think of a reason not to make it all disappear. so disgustingly cliche, it’s nauseating to say it, but it really is much easier to be plastic.

in a small, tight ball, sobbing. not for one thing, really, but you cry for a mess of things you feel on the edge of your mind. you don’t weep for anything but the fact that you refuse to accept any of it. it always hurt to see it in the first place, don’t let it come out.

such a short time, but it stretches on forever. what an ugly thing, to cry. everything is twisted and running and terribly, terribly horrible looking. so damned vulnerable. you cry until you’re nearly empty. you cry until you lack the strength to stop yourself from crying anymore.

you hear every noise, until the time has passed, and you notice you’ve stopped. take a deep breath, Clarity.

when you’re alone, you even glance as if someone might have seen you break your life of composure. there’s no one there, but you’re still ashamed. you almost ask yourself who you can call, who can you pour everything into, but your mind has already begun to erase the thought. you couldn’t trust anyone. what is any one person but another selfish being like yourself?

this is the depth of being alone, and you almost cry again at skimming the surface of such a terrible emptiness.

where is someone who would not laugh or judge or pity or sigh.
where is the one person who could help you sort the mess of yourself?

it’s an easy task to put back on the delicate mask.

and you tell yourself that everything’s fine, and you tell them all nothing is wrong.
and you tell yourself you don’t need anyone.
and you tell yourself you’re not afraid they would think you’re odd.
and you tell yourself you don’t care what anyone thinks.

but most importantly, you convince yourself into feeling nothing, and it’s enough to get by with just enough time to spare.