detached lassitudeMature

You wake up in a quiet room, alone with the sunlight
lazily pooling on the carpet.   You think nothing of it, only rise
and wander around your apartment in your underwear,
not so much hunting for something to eat 
as hoping it will materialize in front of you, hoping it will
move your jaw for you, hoping it will slide down your throat
with the same ease of effort as breathing, as your pulse.
You think there is nothing so exhausting as staying alive.
You think there is nothing so trivial, so boring, so bla.
There are caverns in your heart that have been empty
for the whole of your life, there are chasms between your ribs
that you used to think would be filled when you fell in love,
when you found yourself, when you learned that life was
not about the step-by-step process of living, but rather
about the slow sinking into death that could be no more
frightening than the slow sinking into sleep. 
This sense of ennui has been harboring itself in your bones
for so long that you think it must have always been there.

The End

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