I've done it--
Mastering the art of silence.
There I shared through persistent fingers, recieving the words I didn't know I even wanted to read.
But there I did not soak, and thanked them kindly, deciding to deal solitarily for better.

Here comes another day, and here comes my hope.

Did I not say what I meant to say? Sir, Ma'm. I'm no longer crippled. Sir, Ma'm. give me back my revolver, and glue your past assumptions on paper. Sew them on my clothes. And then watch them tear themselves as I cross this path without holding your sympathetic hands.

I won't let myself cry. Not if my veins outstretched themselves on burgundy. Not if my arms speak for themselves, untamed and anew. Not if my eyebrows crease together and I give another huff for the non-last time.
In syncopation with my quiet-feather expressions.

Expressions meaning me in a room, accompied only by the whirr of the air-conditioner (in which I wonder, why I need noise to sleep at night). Where I let thoughts splash out of me finally, after distractions of the day--worries that aren't relevant to deep, real thoughts begging to be sorted.
And I begin to bleed frustration.

I ask if I can figure it out with someone. But everyone was brave enough without help, so I don't need it.

I ask if I should figure it out. Why I DON'T want to.
But I was screwing up the edges of the puzzle pieces, leaving them in a soft-sided--unclean--mess.
Therefore, I don't know what I need or want--and I CANNOT know.

Maybe words from pages of a book seep into my eyes and travel to my mind easier when I am tired...then they replay more memories of movie clips that play non-reluctant contribution.
Maybe I don't have my real reasons. Maybe I'm caught in a staged show with a single audience member.

Oh, I laugh at the possible confrontations I have of my own idiocy.

Is there a coma I have stumbled upon, that is only just reflections of everyone else's?
Did a wave crash over me and I didn't notice?
Can depression have happiness as its roots?