Iviwrites

I have been trying to write a piece for years now. One. Specific. Piece. For many years. Four years, to be exact. I have only written its title so far, and even that I did four years ago and hid it from the world, from myself. So I began but did not continue. (What miserable excuse will pardon the fact that I deprived myself of this?) It appears that I have not moved an inch from the starting point, but I could swear to you that I have it written down somewhere in my mind. It simply doesn't exist on paper yet. (Poor excuse.) No matter what, I cannot breathe life into it. I cannot write life into it. So I keep dropping the pen without writing a word. (Weak...) There is this one title that stands firm, an idea, an outline I keep holding onto. But it is far from enough. It is not written down, no matter how well I have it visualized. It is not the piece I want it to be. And I don't dare to write, to even try, for I know it won't do justice to the image of it I have built over these four

My heart is scarred by my own mind—a sharp blade, ready to cut all emotion with reason. There is no emotion, no feeling in the world I'd trade for the clarity of my mind. I would not drop this blade for anyone— (Even myself, especially myself). For I remember so well how deep the cut was when feelings ruled, when I dropped my weapon and let the heart lead instead. Now that the cut has (somewhat) healed, the grip around the blade I forged has grown even tighter. It is my hand that is bleeding now, by my own blade nonetheless. It is I who spills my blood for the sake of wisdom. It is my blood that I am shedding, not yours. See the difference between the two of us? ? Do you? ? Do you really? ... See that I am not here for revenge, though. I did not stand in front of you for vengeance. I am here to observe, to understand more, to know better— to never fail myself the way I did back then. Even if it means sacrificing my own blood. Even if I am the one causing me pain. Even if it's the last

"You're the oath of my life, losing you is equal to death and so I stay, even from afar, I'm only yours the way you're mine, in this life and every other. Oath is an oath and you are mine." ... "You've always been the oath of my life, losing you is no longer a possibility and so I stay, we've been far away from each other enough. I'm only yours the way you're mine, in this life and every other, faith brought us together. Faith is with us." I.L. @Iviwrites

You put a blade to my throat and ask why I don't shake in fear, why I don't cry for help, beg for mercy. You press the blade to my neck just enough to make it look like a papercut, nothing more. I don't move. Not because I am frozen in fear, but because I am aware that if you wish to end me, slowly as you started, or quickly in your usual manner, moving wouldn't mean anything. So I stay still and make peace with the blade you keep pressing into my skin. I feel your hands shaking and sweat falling off your forehead. Now I ask: Why do you shake in fear? Why do you shiver? It is not me pressing the cold knife against your throat. It is your manner, your doing. It's all you. I remain still, so very used to the sharpness and coldness of all sorts. I remain. I don't move. Out of frustration for lack of my reaction, you press the blade deeper and blood starts flowing, slowly. If anyone saw me, they'd say I scratched myself over some sharp surface while being in my own world. Nothing unusual