text: Typing is the easiest way I know to scream at the dark. Because you know it's out there, circling you. Never had much of a singing voice and there's always so many ears. Listening. Makes your own voice sound painful and ridiculous. Makes you sound small. So very small. But words. Type written words. Ink on page. It's like you're invincible. Once they're written down, they have been written. Something that can't just be taken away, something real, something that happened. An actual. Actually. And you huddle around them, these words, for warmth. Like a tiny fire lighting a tiny light in the middle of the deepest darkest woods. Maybe staring at the fire makes the shadows harder to see. Maybe if I stare long enough, I'll forget her. You'll forget her. It's why you do this you know. Reading and writing and listening to music and watching your shows, that's fucking why right there: Her. Desperately searching for some anecdote, some scene, some paragraph that will make you feel like you did the first time you noticed her. Really noticed her. Something that'll make your insides bubble up and take all those cold bitter years you thought you had and make you feel like some dumb school boy in love again, that's fucking why. And it's the damn truth and you know it. No amount of somebody else's words or even your own written hastily on some coffee house napkin about how cute you think she is in 4 lines or less, rhyming preferred because you want to be clever, with an ending that makes you seem mysterious, is going to change that. The fact that right now you're here reading this and not with HER, or whoever. That the truth is there are just these words. These words and the darkness.