Wasting Time

I scroll and then scroll and then scroll,

pretending I can’t feel the numbing ache in my mind, in my bones.

I pretend not to notice the hours dragging away, the hours of life I won’t get back.

To be fair, at this point does it even matter how much I waste? We’ve all been sitting in a pandemic for over a year now.

You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

Don’t go out, you’ll spread the virus, it’s deadly.

But here I sit, dying anyway.

My voice is getting smaller, my shoulders slouching into themselves, my breathing barely a wisp.

//Yeah, sure, let’s go out for an hour or two! Let’s shake the cobwebs off and live a little!//

Just to come back to the empty nothingness of seclusion... again.

Get me the fuck out of this hellhole.

I’m not saying there haven’t been good moments. I’m still able to laugh, and smile, and have a relatively decent conversation.

But my soul is a small, withering thing, and my body is starting to echo the need for stimulation.

My eyes feel empty. Again.

My arms are numb. Again.

I’ve been here before, in this ho-hum of just-barely-dragging-by life.

The first time, I did it by myself.

The world wasn’t following along with me.

Fuck, how did I get out of there last time?

I can’t remember. I couldn’t tell ya.

I feel like I’ve been here a decade now, just trying not to think about what’s happened over the years. If it sounds dramatic, that’s because it is.

I’m really good at putting the pretty words together to make things sound ok, but that’s only after this rough draft of pain and exhaustion and dreary nothingness is filtered out of the void that I call my mind.

I don’t cry because I’m pretty sure if I started I wouldn’t be able to stop. I’ve gotten damn good at numbing things, I’ll say that much.

It used to be water works everyday, but there’s too much shit for that now. Ain’t got time for that mess.

Are you ok? Tell me you’re at least better than me. No, no, never mind. I won’t put that on you.

But at least tell me you won’t pry.

Just let this piece of writing be a piece of writing. I don’t have the effort to act like I care to break down the facade. It’s why the writing exists for me. As a place to be melodramatic in the most genuine of senses, amongst the most dreary of minds that will also admit to the nothingness they feel when they stare out their window on a day that seems to hold no life for them.

I’m not a happy writer. The things I have to say aren’t profound and they aren’t helpful or inspiring.

Life sucks babe. Sometimes I think Jesus might be able to renew it, but it hasn’t happened in a hot minute...

So for now, we scroll.

And scroll, and scroll, and post, and pretend we aren’t just adding to the noise.