taedium and distress

The winter withers me as it does the leaves. The sap running through my veins carries only ennui. My only desire is for warmth, and it is unquenchable. I am starved, but I feel no hunger. I don’t even know how I contrive sentences, let alone how I manage to get out of bed before dawn. Usually I am disgusted with my lack of productivity, my dearth of passion, but under grey skies I could care less. I am dissatisfied, but nothing more. Not angry, not morose, not full of suffering or loathing, just. . . suffused with apathy. I am a husk, a machine of bone and tissue with only a concern for comfort and safety and security. Always I am waiting. Waiting for spring, waiting to crack out of a shell so thick that I have not yet been able to pierce through. I feel so very boring.

Patiently I sit behind these eyes watching myself perform obligatory tasks, all the while wondering why I participate in this trite charade. I deny myself so much life, and for what? The anticipation of what? Of being able to live? Of being able to live without so much uncertainty. The ephemeral nature of the universe is what gives it such charm, but I fear nothing else like I do change. When I encounter those moments of knowing that everything is altered forever after, I can feel the ground beneath my feet convulse and my heart flutter in my throat. Even if the day after dawns brilliant, more so than ever before, I am still afraid. I am greatly perplexed by that which I cannot visualize. I find comfort in painless repetition, complacency in effortless redundancy. I need not fear monotony, for though monotony breeds boredom, boredom does not breed surprises.

Frequently I live my life in apprehension, and it tends to stay my hands or seal my lips. I want so badly to have adventures. Unfortunately the consequences of frivolity are questionable, and therefore I tend to refrain. Before most things I am responsible and pragmatic. Consequently I am rarely comfortable and too often am I bored. I resort to daydreams which are such poor substitutes to making memories. I allow myself to languish. It is unfortunate how I wallow in ambivalence. I adore foolish escapades, but rarely do I allow myself to indulge. I get such enjoyment from unexpected pleasures, but it can be so difficult to take that step outside my comfort zone. I needn’t fear the rut I am sprawled in. I need only detest my tendency towards apathy as the consequence. In my dormancy, I need only to acquiesce to the disappointment of failing to thrive.

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