Stillborn

I exist in the paralysis between command and obeying — not sleep, not pain, but the mind made immobile. Nerves flare like dry tinder, every signal raw and urgent: Move. Learn. Eat.

And still — I am in the gap. Stuck. Frozen. Thoughts spin like knives debating motion that never comes. My body becomes a mutineer, refusing the magicks summons, ignoring the electric orders flooding down the spine.

I am trapped inside a shrine of thought, pacing altars of possibility — should I move? why study? what can I take in? — while the temple remains sealed.

Here I wait, not by choice but by inheritance, a captive to my own circuitry: admonished, urged, and finally abandoned by the very impulses that ought to free me. Paralyzed.