My alarm goes off again and I let it. I’m too tired to shut it off. I just let it rings as background noise in comparison to my running thoughts. Thoughts of work, of the world chaos, the pandemic and of life run rampant in my head, weighing me down into defeat. I just want to lay in bed, in the predictable warmth of sheets and blankets.
I’ll get up though, eventually because today is some irrelevant midweek day, not the weekend. I will be okay; I might even have everything whatever everything is. An objective outsider could analyze my life and conclude there is nothing wrong, but my feelings are in direct conflict and I loathe that. I agree with the objective outsider. It isn’t that I am not aware of how lucky I am. I have things that most of the world doesn’t. I should be happy, but why am I not?
Is my sickness
– sadness? There is no substantive reason for my sadness though, unlike others.
I’m just as average as they come with enough fortune to deem an acceptable good
life. I try to fight it. I count my
blessings as the cliché dictates. I even start a gratitude journal and write a
list of my good life. But gratitude
isn’t the antidote to sadness. People like me are immune to any of its
remedying effects. I read the lists of blessings and only see more reasons to
feel guilty, immersing back into the trap.
I linger in bed sure, but I eventually get up. My thoughts are weighing but nothing equating to harm. I might be a bit reserved but I still have friends and family I keep in contact regularly. My sadness remains unexplained and that’s what makes me feel worse. It’s the morning dread that extends into an all day affair. It’s how my feet drag, how my head lays low and how my eyes avoid contact. It’s listening to people talk but not understanding a word because my thoughts were louder.
It’s the façade of being a yes person, accepting social invitations I always regret when I would rather be hibernating. It’s the tiresome effort to keep up with life’s charade that eats me up slowly.