Through These Days

I'm not pushing, I'm dragging myself.
Each morning, each day, I drag myself through time to perform for the witnesses to my life. I've attempted to do otherwise. I simply am not able.
This state elicits surprise in me each time I become aware of it, this condition. I deny it, then it washes over me unrelentless in it's smothering, it's heaviness.

So I find my self slogging through my day, nearly fixed in apathy. Ah, but apathy has come to be my trusted friend. I appreciate my apathy. For when indifference passes, in slips sorrow. Quick, piercing, black sorrow.

I let the hateful tears come when they want now, for they don't seem to accomplish anything. They don't wash, they don't heal. They leave me as quickly as they come. I don't understand this type of sadness. I wait. I wait for an answer to fill the void that I can't name, that I haven't had the courage to question.

I will continue the dragging. My head tells me that my heart can have this battle. I refuse to think this one through. I am feeling it. As painful as it is, there is a reason for it. It is mine.