It is morning again. The thick blanket of fog is once again trying to permeate my being and enter within, violating me.... in obscene defiance to my every attempt at resisting it. I hate this ritual everyday, yet I know it will happen with unfailing regularity day after day, week after week. And in a strange sort of way, I almost welcome it.
The grey fog of feelinglessness, I call it. For once it settles, I can feel nothing. There are no spikes of joy, depths of sorrow, no rush of adrenaline, nor reflective serenity. It is just a blank grey emptiness that resists all attempts to banish. Comes as it wills and leaves as it wills (I somehow think it never wills to leave). I can sense it from the moment I wake up to the moment I shut my eyes and fall sleep.
Just a deep melancholy that tints every incoming stimulus with its grey, and evoking a distant "Why bother? how does it matter? Is it really worth it?" response. It affects my every cell, rendering it dull and inactive. The lethargy is overpowering. It desensitizes me to the world. A blind, mindless existence, not reactive, and, definitely not proactive. I waste away every minute, every day. God help me. Or atleast tell me what is wrong.
The introspector has spoken
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