The Distance of Words - by Xallyheart

I hold the pen,and the page stares back at mewhite, infinite,hungry for somethingI cannot name,something that drifts farther awaywith every trembling heartbeat,every shallow breath,every attempt to pull lifefrom thought. My skull is crowded with restless shadows,thoughts pressing against one anotherlike trapped birds,shoving, murmuring, clawing,then vanishing the instant I reach for them,leaving only the echo of what almost wasa whisper of possibilitythat dies before it touches the page. I want to write.I try.My hand moves,then freezes,then moves again,a fragile, desperate gestureagainst a hollow silencethat waits like a predatorpatient, merciless,certain of my failurebefore I begin. Fear coils through my chest,tight, cold, relentless,pressing against ribs,against throat,against the quietthat might have been mine,against the small, shrinking spacewhere hope once hid. I see words forming elsewherelines breathing, sentences aliveand I watch them movewithout me,as if language itselfhas decided I am unworthy.I sit bare, trembling,pinned beneath the weight of silence,the pen growing heavier with each heartbeat,the page widening into a chasmI cannot cross. Time stretches thin and sharp,like a scream trapped in my throat,like air that refuses my lungs,like the distance between thought and paperthat will not yield,that widens with every attempt,every hesitation,every pulse reminding methat I am hereand the words are elsewhere. I hold my breathbecause movement feels dangerous,because wanting feels dangerous,because even tryingis a confession of absenceproof of fragility.Still the pen waits.Still the page waits.Still I wait,feeling everything,producing nothing. The numbness comes slowly,intimate, suffocating,pressing against every thought,every memory of wordsI once carriedand could not release,dulling the ache just enoughto let me survivewithout moving,without breathing fully,without being whole. My chest aches with the need to create.My hands tremble with it.My mind circles endlesslynever landing,never resting.I watch the sentences that live elsewhere,that breathe without effort,and I am leftwith this hollow watching,this bare, trembling wanting,this quiet, unending ache. I hold the pen like a talisman,like a lifeline,like a confession I cannot speak.It weighs more than my body,more than the words I cannot summon,more than the shame that coils in my chestand settles across my ribs and shoulders,pressing me smalleras the page looms largeunreachable,indifferent,hungry. The page remains blank.I remain herebare,aching,afraid to try,ashamed of wanting,exposed to the quiet terrorthat this may be all I ever am:someone who sees words,hears them,feels them,and cannot reach them. And still I sitpen in hand,page untouchedfeeling everything,leaving no trace,watching the distance stretchbetween the life that flows elsewhereand the silencethat suffocates me here.

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