Crystalline

She cries so freely and with such tenacity that I can't help but be envious. It isn't that I want her to cry or want her to feel hurt, but the single fact that she can feel that hurt drives me closer and closer to the edge of something indescribably unimaginable. It isn't fear and it isn't rage, but it is something so perilous that I'm afraid that once I'm there, I won't be coming back.

This content is a daemon I have fought for years. With every blow of his hammer and swing of his massively demoralizing fists, I am knocked further and further back into the shell of a being that I have tried so valiantly to break away from. I close my eyes and fight blindly every passing day, but I am never able to gain any ground. The indifference sits like a stone in my stomach, weighing me down. I must eat more of the stuff to get stronger, but every time I do, it makes me comparatively weaker. I can hold my ground against things like suicides and heartache, but I can't find the urge within myself to consider mourning the dying lights of winter or feeling guilt for a kind word left unsaid.

The question rises in the back of my mind each and every time I am on the verge of breaking out. I picture her with another man or a tombstone and I feel inside. I let it sit, hoping and praying that it will find the courage to push itself up out of my chest and make itself apparent upon my glazed stare, but the feel diminishes and I find myself screaming silent queries into the darkness of apathy: "Why can't I cry?"

I'm so envious of her tears and of her everything I'm not. Why can't I sympathize anymore? Could it be my past suppressing my emotions for the sake of self-preservation? Surely my history isn't that littered with scrapes and aggravations of my psyche and morale. All I want is to taste the saline solution of my regrets willingly: All I want is to feel.

I know I have it in me, because the apathy hasn't yet taken away my will to write—only my inspiration.