/lit/ - Literature

I feel nothing but a constant sense of emptiness. I don't laugh. I can't cry. I can hardly act. I've sat for a week 'thinking upon' things that need to be done. I could have done them in that time, handily. Instead I counted the clock while consumed by a constant subdued dread, from waking to sleeping I thought on the demands of life. They were all very possible, then. Now it is almost too late. And I cannot bring myself...to...act. I must act. It is the simplest of things asked of me. But I don't want to do them. Reason dictates their necessity. I see no reason for reason. Each new day, tomorrow falls upon me with the weight of an ocean. My world is drowned but heaven heaps on tomorrows anew. But this is nothing new, I've spent my entire adult life this way. I've spent but bought nothing. Even now with the promise of total ruin on the wrong side of this expanse, of this deed, I cannot bring myself to do it. Do I have a will? I cannot conceive of it. My limbs are dead, they only obey instinct, they do only what they've done. I cannot master them to any cause.

There is warmth in mourning the impossible. I think I will tarry here just a little longer...

I feel nothing but a constant sense of emptiness. I don't laugh. I can't cry. I can hardly act. I've sat for a week 'thinking upon' things that need to be done. I could have done them in that time, handily. Instead I counted the clock while consumed by a constant subdued dread, from waking to sleeping I thought on the demands of life. They were all very possible, then. Now it is almost too late. And I cannot bring myself...to...act. I must act. It is the simplest of things asked of me. But I don't want to do them. Reason dictates their necessity.I see no reason for reason. Each new day, tomorrow falls upon me with weight of an ocean. My world is drowned but heaven heaps on tomorrows anew. But this is nothing new, I've spent my entire adult life this way. I've spent but bought nothing. Even now with the promise of total ruin on the wrong side of this expanse, of this deed, I cannot bring myself to do it. Do I have a will? I cannot conceive of it. My limbs are dead, they only obey instinct, they do only what they've done. I cannot master them to any cause.

There is warmth in mourning the impossible.