Only the dead are free

I sit with blank page and pencil in hand. I've known this moment a thousand times but today it is a stranger. I have cut myself off from love so thoroughly that even my imaginations, once free flowing and full of hope, end before there is ever a 'what if'. I have forsaken my soul in the pursuit of growth, I have removed my lungs and sit with my vocal chords uselessly vibrating. I have shot myself in the foot.

how many times can I choose myself before it is just me left?

how many times can I choose others until there's is no me left?

I always come back to balance, and somehow even with years of practice, it is still my weakest trait. everything must always live in the shadow of the moment, but I must not fear the shadow and at all cost I must never become obsessed with the shadow. It must exist as a subtle tease, holding it's power in the idea it may never come.