EREN. I want that name carved into my soul.
Every carefully weaved letter of that foreboding word - I want that name to pepper me with spiderweb cracks until I am left used and empty, with no more walls to cower behind. I want to let each syllable bleed into me; injected through my veins by a needle that's too thin, yet too dense, yet too easily broken. That name needs to make me feel something.
I am not one for adding ornamentation to my spoken word, but Eren is the name that makes me a paramour mad with infatuation. Eren is the name that fills me with bliss in the uttermost melancholy of the silent black and bandaged night. Eren is the one I long to look at behind his sleeper's eyes, and see the movement and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and flight and fall and despair and big seas of his dreams.
Unfortunately, I fear I am waiting for something that is never going to happen. I'm looking for an epiphany I'm a sea of hypophrenia. What screws us up most in life is the pictures we paint inside of our frail minds, then watch in agony as the colours melt and merge to form a watercolour mess of our own delusions. I'm nothing more than a wallflower - a jaded casket of whatever I used to be.
Me and Eren are caught up in a war. I act like it doesn't bother me, but it's killing me inside.
Mamihlapinatapai.