I wrote for two days, then I couldn't write yesterday.
Nothing.
It's so
difficult.
I have been dragging myself since the morning to write again,
but... no progress: Just the heavy resistance of a body and mind not willing to move.
I want to write so much.
I want to write about everything.
Everything
I see,
I hear,
I listen,
I speak,
I feel.
Everyone I meet.
I want to
log everything.
The voices, the thoughts, the feelings, the emotions.
Those experiences.
My entire life and every life that is connected to
me.
I want to draw the whole, tangled web with my words and bottles of ink.
But, I can't...
I am unable to.
I lodge it in my head, like notes tucked into invisible pockets.
But then when I
think of jotting it down, I am unable to pick up the pen.
My spine
doesn't straighten up.
My hand refuses to move.
Even the pages seem to hide from me.
I can't find pages suddenly.
Every minute I lived, carefully logged in my head, slips away.
They run down long corridors in my mind, into corner rooms at the end of the hall, slamming the doors behind them.
They go into those rooms,
shut the doors, and hide in the old attic.
They disappear into the old attic, becoming an omnium gatherum — a hoard of sporadic bits and broken pieces, locked inside a rusted trunk, covered in spiderwebs, sealed by years of dust.
And I stand outside that attic door, pen in hand, too late.
- Oizys.