Do blades cut deeper into victims with aichmophobia?

I’m not in disarray. That’s not what it is. I have no original state of control to compare this to. Thus I am forever condemned to walk this path of apathy down forks with scales of vigor as their divider. A sluggish tale staring me, the question mark. I’ve no knowledge as to who is the predator hunting me down and what lies beneath the gravel which I so vehemently bolt from. My idle ways are now in an avalanche. I can’t afford to look back and I can’t seem to be able to remember. With every step forward, I forget where I started and with every step back, I forget where I’m going. You know, sometimes I feel like I could just stop. The adventures and tales I dream of dreaming yet fail to imagine myself in could all be within the waves of my own mind. I feel like I could let go. Of everything. I could swarm myself in the cold snow of my past and simply hover over the winter-covered path the weather shall open up. Maybe the sea of debris is where I need to lie right now, beneath the frosted dew and fallen air. Perhaps the bundled leaves, impaled by seasons and their colors alike have fallen tribute to my awakening. A troubled slumber of sporadic panic makes for no successful daily regime, much less a first shot at one. But as I toss and turn, run and hide with my instinct as my compass, I can’t help but wonder:Does skin-deep understanding of wounds repel salt? Are cuts of keen blades subject to ignorance of victim? Or will I bleed regardless of convictions?

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