I will never make you feel anything.

If you'll allow me to scream into the void for a moment.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA"

Okay. Done.

.... But here's my dilemma.

(And I apologize. I cannot speak in any other matter than the abstract, the specifics scratch my palms, and the description makes me bleed. I'll do so for my stories, gladly. But for this, for something additional... well... there's a reason I never finish my stories.)

Here I am, surrounded by songs, by art, by the stars and the autumn leaves - the dappled colors of red littered among the moss-covered stones - by the gut-wrenching reality of my favorite shows, by the moment I stop short, even the dust particles dancing in the sunlight freezing, for a moment, as the first notes of piano play, as I lie in their spaces of blanket forts and fairy lights, of fireflies flitting between the trees, as I reminisce of how real the evening breeze feels as I listen to my mother's voice rise in delight over the ladybug in her hands, as I walk around in circles after a character death leaves me an emotional wreck, how much I find my sanctuary outside, despite how rarely I go there, despite how much I fail to describe it, despite how utterly intoxicated and mad I feel, to be unable to give this moment in its entirety to someone else.

I am stuck here, in my perception, my experience, and by the stars I just want you to feel something.

I want to make you feel something the way the arts grip my heartstrings and yank. I want to make you taste the autumn breeze or the heated honey over the stove. I want to be the deity that doesn't have to take part in any of this, the one that rests in a blue-lit cave and waits for the adventurers to come, the one who weaves a story, bottles it up, and pours it into the characters' eyes as they scream. I need to drive you mad in the way I feel, it's so sickly sweet and isn't this the human experience? Can't I have just this? Can't I capture a single moment in a car drive with my siblings singing an off-tune renditions of songs, the drowsy orange sunset casting their voices in the temporary quality of it all.

No, please understand. I need to make you feel something. Feel the stars in the sky. Just that. I'll give my soul and everything beyond it for the ability to make you feel the stars. Or, if I dare to ask for too much, I want to make you feel the moon. I want to make you feel the moon in the depths of my depression as it whispers lullabies and songs and milk and honey with cardamon and a dash of cinnamon swept and cradled in a midnight quilt and by the stars it's so simple. It's so simple and mundane and everyday and my life passes by in that midnight haze, I'm drowning in jam, in that honey jar like a small mouse, and here the moon goes unnoticed. I'll live through more than a thousand precious moons and miss them all.

I need to have them in words. Don't you see? Words are my craft of choice. My mistaken everything. The craft I've poured my childhood into the chance of being able to put a feeling into words, to make you feel it. I only want to craft a safe place, a patch of sunflowers and old-growth trees, blanketed in moss, let's hide there. I only want to offer that safe, carved-out place where nothing bleeds and numbs anymore. What can I even do with these words if not that? Career and future and school and life be damned, I need that.

And I know. I know it exists. I'm listening to a song while writing this and its gently, ever so gently, taking a scalpel to my heart and carving it out, rewrapping it with tea leaves that smell of my childhood and a worn teddy bear and placing it back, ever so gently, nothing but gentle in the way it places the beating thing back in my chest, stitching it closed, yanking it all so it squeezes and it hurts by the stars it hurts but I need this. Place my insides in new configurations, make sure I'm never the same again, offer me a new route, a new constellation in this strange experience.

I can't make myself feel anything. All my life I've wasted trying to control my emotions, regulate them, the sticky ones that leave residue on my hands like honey, like jam, like my drowning as my hands heat up and my head hazes and anger sparks in daylight executive dysfunction and the stars lie just beyond my grasp, never mine to keep.

This song will only make me feel this way once. From this moment forevermore it'll be different, trodden on before, never will I stop in the path at just the right moment for a breeze to fill my lungs as I gaze at a patient moon, alit in fireflies.

Tomorrow, when the sun rises, again I'll be in that haze, thick and gloopy and sapping me of everything. I'll attempt a feeling of space, of the night and its emptiness, of this exact surgery from this exact song that's been replayed a few times, not too many, not yet, please let me savor this forever. I can't have this forever and I'll be tossed into the ocean yet again, the sea levels have risen and swallowed up my little island. I want this forever please, please, please.

And what are they really? Words? Feelings? Fickle things that'll erode and rot and something else will feed on the remains. I've told myself I've learned. I can't. I'm so tired. I can't control my feelings and I won't even try anymore. I'll coast along with these waves and do my best to watch the moon all the same.

But by the stars, the desire remains. I want this forever.

And if I can't have it, if it's not mine to have, perhaps those with... easier-to-navigate internal worlds can have it instead. I'll settle for that. Please grant me some creativity. Grant me some skill, some talent, some resolve or discipline or something, something please. Let me build my blanket fort of woven sunflower quilts and not have to return here after trekking through the daylight.

And here's the dilemma.

To craft my sanctuary, I need to imbue it with this feeling. Feelings don't stay long enough to create something as small as a flower crown.

Here's my attempt. My hope. I can't make myself care about the material plane as much as it would benefit me. (School means nothing if I'm not hyper fixated, the future and the consequences cannot hurt me if my parents aren't angry. What am I to do.)

Here, on the internet, in the real world, I don't care, I want to craft a little sanctuary. I'll do it one flower crown at a time but by the stars, moon, the ether, and the emptiness above I'll finish this.

.... oh this is why Kanade from Project Sekai has the same personality type as me; I get it now.

....This is the best I can do so far.

Now to debate how much to edit this absolute rambling mess.