I can't do this. There's so much locked inside, but nothing worth saying. I can't tell the truth and I can't lie, but most of all I can't have anyone know that I'm lost and empty--that half the laughs are hollow and most the smiles are fake. Can anyone tell? I watch them all, try to check that no one has cracked my mask, but I cannot see myself the way they do--my reflection looks so flat and lifeless, blurry and dissolving...It's snowing outside and I'm trapped. The hot cocoa that burns away my sorrow has suddenly turned bitterly sweet, just like memory...I am falling, over and over, and the chair I toppled from disappeared, and there is a canyon wall, and a river, and the sky, and my sister calling my name, and the bushes too close, and--CRASH--I would sit there in the attic for hours and listen to the snow drip--off and off the roof, crunching as it hit the snow--because there was nothing else to hear. I was ten and curled up with a book and a blanket wrapped around my mind, a numbing, blissful agony. Time crawled so slowly...there was nothing to see, nothing to think and nothing inside but old broken dreams, a dumping ground for everyone's problems which lay rotting in my heart. This is why I can't tell--my secrets aren't even mine--but can't not tell...and let truth decay. My own truths are hidden among everyone else's, but there is no one to open the lid on this summer soda can. (They're all afraid of the spray.) So I sit and wait in the attic, falling and spinning...This must be what it's like to be guardian of Hell.
Note to reader: Confused? Think of Inception.
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