Sacrifice For Survival

I am stuck in a rut. In a room. Trapped between one side of the bed and a table cluttered with dusty books and this crappy laptop. I want to get out, getaway. Far, far away. I can not live like this anymore. This comfort comes at the cost of my privacy, my peace, my place. I have no choice but to lock myself in this room, locking myself away from the very people whose presence scorches me. I do not want this. I want to move out of this hellish stomach that incinerates my freedom with its toxic acid. I just want to tear it open and spring out. I am losing every intangible part of me. I can feel myself dissolving. My dedication, my love, my books, my words, my mind, me. All fossilizing. The connection of blood has kept me tethered. Their blood filled my veins, tying me to this burning stomach. I want to rid (or, purge?) myself of their so-called ichor and be free.

"There is a freedom that comes with abandonment." Suzanne Scanlon. 

Maybe detachment will be the key to this junky lock. Maybe severance is the only true salvation. I am desperate to alleviate myself by chopping off this relationship, even if it means bleeding. Desperate to get rid of this dependency. I know I will bleed when I part ways. If sacrificing my own blood is what is needed to gain survival, then so be it. 

- Oizys.

Words Hemmed Inside The Attic of My Mind

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.