And your hand hovers over the blank page, clutching your pen tightly. You don't want to scar the page because it looks just so pretty, but your head is getting full, and you're afraid it will burst. You read in a book that there was a time when everyone thought that there was a part of them that was made of glass (and, oh, your CD switches from Marilyn Manson to Eminem, and you're embarrassed) and you fear this part of you is your brain and one day it will shatter. You forget why you got your notebook, but you know that it was something beautiful.
So you write what your thinking. Something long and confusing, and solely on the surface. You scribble it down, waiting to worry about how silly it sounds after you write. You just want for people to like your deepest secrets and innermost thoughts and surreptitious attempts at the spotlight of underground writing that probably isn't very good at all. Because you like the flow of second person writing, and the tight cramp growing just below the knuckle of your thumb because you hold your pen differently then everyone else. Your handwriting is really good, but you say how you hate is to seem modest, but you don't seem near modest enough. You want to sing along to the song that you're listening to (a couple of years and I'm a silhouette...) But you're too afraid that your family will over hear and laugh, because you've heard them do that before, so you keep your mouth shut and wince at the tightness that has moved to the dead center of your palm.