What do I call you?

I am running low on pretty words. They tell as much as they hide. We give them to the reader hoping they will find a semblance of relatable truth in them, when in fact it is our heart that lies bare before them. Scribe what we will; the illness of humanity maintains the unknowable nature of the self, even within our own gaze. So sharpen your claws, your wit and bards. Adjust your line of sight until the crosshair fades into the target. I have cloaked many an emotion in ciphers so cynical and detached that upon reflection I find no true feeling in them. Every aching moment of my hearts spasmodic journey has been heralded in prose. Shame, loss and many shades of hate were chronicled, categorised and kept. Alas, now a stranger to these lands is standing, gloriously shivering, by my gates. I know it to be a part of me, for its very presence tells me so. Though never before have I, the collector of chaos and grotesque carnage, been so afraid to describe such a thing as this. In a whimper I call out to, requesting its name. Grandiosely it declares, “I am Joy”