It’s one of those times where food doesn’t taste good. The air doesn’t smell fresh. I want to incinerate everything I own and fall soundlessly asleep on a gray bed.
The piles of clothes and books and things threaten to envelop me. I see my scrapbooks and feel inexplicably crushed by the weight of memories more happy than sad. The mental “to do” list circulates like a funnel cloud. The only thing dirtier than my surroundings is me; showering became optional so long ago.
I make no plans and cancel all that were previously-made. I enter power-saving mode: nothing updates, no new information is acquired or processed. To get dressed, leave home, drive a car – these are tasks I cannot complete.
I realize my husband had no lunch because I didn’t leave our bed, and guilt deepens. I realize the mountains of clothes exist because I didn’t do laundry yesterday. I go through the motions of wiping down a bathroom counter, and I see the futility of such a small gesture. I want nothing but to fall asleep and wake up different, content, clean. But I curl into my fleece blanket knowing that if I fall asleep, I will likely wake up the same as I am.
After the Semicolon 