An expanse of characters unknown to me is all I can percieve.
There is no prompt dictating my choices, and therefore none shall be made.
The day and night have become one, and heaven and hells interests coincide.
Tangled forests, icy tundras, calm plains, and inexplicably dark areas exist sporadically everywhere.
Indifference fueled by emotion makes for a strange perception.
There is no certainty that I can discern from the tangled mess I see.
The characters shift and change color into an amalgamation that almost appears solid.
You can see figures shamble in the distance who constantly dissemble their motives with a facade of good intent.
As choices shall not be made I let them pass me by, but without my unease being assuaged by their lack of presence.
As they pass I look again to the characters that make up the empty space on the ground.
The nearly solidified characters become words: creativity, speech, calculating, organizing, and creating.
The words fluctuate in location, and start to become paths to the different places I can see.
They appear fractured by incomprehensible darkness, but the path can still be tread carefully.
Is sitting in silence what I should continue to do, or must I choose to abandon the indifference where I took shelter?
Must I tread a path that is broken in my own mind simply to achieve more uncertainty?
I will end up on a path someday, but what word the path is given is the last question.
Will my unease at these figures be ameliorated when I take the path they refuse to tread, or must I follow them through the straight line they walk?
The word is stretched too far for me to understand, but I question it's competence due to it never breaking.
I'll move any day now from this perch of indifference to where I can read more words.
Though some words may cause me to feel pain and others regret, I understand the consequence.
I can't stay as I am though because there is no reason to sit when there are choices to be made.
This world must be explored, and I must know what the characters mean.
I want to know what will make the world that I can see change into a world I can understand.
Even if it means repairing the words that I covered in darkness.

Perhaps in moving forward I outran time, and left years dying in my mentality.
Years of living in a dependent way, and not making choices.
The years that made words easier to say, and friends easier to make.
They were lost upon me in solitude.
I was left in books and knowledge for too long a time.
Words in a book will state what people want, but words on a page speak volumes.
The poems we all wrote in those ages of contempt.
They milked the venom in our veins to make it so we couldn't ****.
Though I never wrote then, and I didn't show the venom I felt it.
What most call hate was apparent in me at a much younger age.
Though I know it wasn't hate, but I didn't then.
Contempt or disdain is how I'd refer to it now.
She was the only person who I could feel it towards, and I am no better for that.
She gave me life, and I still can't stand the relation.
I bit my tongue as she tried to buy me, work me, and what she'd call care for me.
This not nor will be a person I can in my right mind, call anything positive.
I couldn't stay in a place where the voice of authority was more a child than me.
I have trouble with acknowledging her as who she is to me.
I was given a fire that nearly burned her away, and though I am not proud of it.
I would have just watched the fire with the same eyes I have now.
People cool me down though, those people called friends.
They spoke of understanding rather than disgust, though confusion was there.
How could one burn someone so close, and how can they just talk about it?
It concerns some and scares most, but some know why I burned.

Time is venerable and impartial.
It has no need for desire or emotion, yet what it encompasses does.
Time seems unfair and uncaring, but it has purpose.
To see what you really care about.

When music isn't enough to fill the pit in your stomach, because they aren't there to fill it for you.
You want to speak out, but they aren't yours.
You want to request some time, but the more they doesn't reply the more empty you feel.
So you sit contemplating how many messages you can send before they won't feel the same way.
You contemplate what words you can say, but the only words that come to mind are words you could never speak.
Words that you want to say to their face because they don't deserve to get a text asking for their love.
Do they still need time to get over that break, and do you still need time to recover from yours?
I for one am not one to cry love, only fear.
I can speak on what I am worried about for hours, but when one speaks on love I am silent.
It takes knowing someone's definition of love to be with them, but how do you ask that of someone simply?
"What do you think love is", or "Do you love me"?
The dynamic of both answers depends on how long it feels like they've lived.
When the first of those questions is asked, where do you want them to be?
Far away where their face can't give a second answer, or close to you so they can't cower from it.
Love is a harsh word many definitions exist, and to many people of a younger age it is synonymous with pain.
For those who have experienced their love without regret know otherwise.
Even if they hold that love as a secret to their chest they know its warmth, and its burn.
I can't speak for everyone's love, and I can hardly speak for my own.
Though it may be a painful thing to endure while one is away, and it may be a time consuming thing while they are there.
Your hearts are worth the time, and the closer your hearts can tie themselves the warmer the love will be.
As for me, I will be one of the ones to ask of love in person.
I will be one of the few to accept the answer.
and I may be as two or one in my heart in the end.

This hollow house with only one heart beating in a
cozy room, but it is one of many.
What a shame that a heart is so cold...
The typing of words to keep the ice at bay
It's a shame it will never understand what it wants,
but in a way it is just within reach.

The heart isn't always alone though.
The one that gives it a beat, and the one of ice coexist there at times too.
The two are bound to one another through unnatural means.
Metal ties them together though it is not connected by anything but words and paper; spoken and signed.
The heart that gives the lone heart a beat says the heart of ice will never be happy, and this scares them.
If the cold consumes it; it can never be happy again.

The heart can leave the hollow home, but it fears rejection.
The hearts outside can be cruel, but some hearts seem so warm.
The lone heart wants love and company, but it fears what is inside those warm hearts.
Can the words the lone heart uses give light to a new love, and make a heart that will make them skip a beat?
It's fear is that the words will instead have the other freeze it solid.

A hollow house with a shy lone heart.
The one who brings it's beat, the one of ice, the one to make it skip a beat, and the one to freeze it solid.

My writing can't always be filled with heartbreak and getting over loss.
Tonight I'll write for her, the one who helped me more than she knows.
Whether she views me as a brother, or as more than I friend I care for her.
I've said way too many things to her that I mean, than I meant to say.
If that is a good thing I will never know, but she may know if I asked.
She supports the way I think, and doesn't mind when I say my awkward thoughts.
I am writing for the one who gave me the strength to try to write a happy message.
I am writing because I don't want people to get the wrong idea about me at the same time as writing for her.
I am not the one who is always stuck in some rut that can only be escaped through helping others.
That is just the kind of person that I am.
I want to write music with the girl, and I want it to be stuck in my head to justify thinking about her.
I want to say all of the stupid things I can say before she asks me to stop.
I would like to make a friendship something more, even if that just means being a brother to her.
I don't want her to be hurt by anything anymore, and I know I can't do that but I have to try.
Even if every sweet word I say stings, it was meant well.
Even if I can't fix her broken heart, I can remind her that someone is there.
Would a song help if I wrote it, and not just any song.
A song about what the world has done, and any other inhumanities I feel hurt.
A song about what I feel to let her know that I care.
A song that is just for her whenever she wants to hear it.
I don't know what song I should make, but if I hit the right notes it could be what she needs.
Music won't fix a broken heart, and neither will making something just for someone else.
Giving someone the strength to find closure is what you need to do, but if you don't know how to give it to them they will hurt for longer.
Music is what keeps her going, so music will be the message to help her heal.

I figure writing while laying down will be sloppy compared to my computer writing, but it will also be less edited.
I am not entirely sure why, but I want to have my hair cut.
If you know me, those words are like sin.
Yet I can't seem to shake the feeling, I am getting tired of looking so... poofy.
Maybe just getting rid of some of the thickness would make me feel better.
I think I should talk with my dad about the counseling I never got.
I think I need to stop being afraid of asking for things.
I don't want to sleep right now, I feel like something that won't happen will.
I feel like something that can't happen is feasible.
When I close my eyes, I can't stop thinking.
About how she should be here.
Instead, I do the logical thing, and hug my blanket as I think depressing teenage thoughts.
Do I need help beyond myself?
I hate advice, because often times the answers are so simple I refuse them.