Everyday is Sunday.
Socks left unmatached, laundry still damp in the washer. Two days now. The sweet smell of the detergent is starting to sour and mold.
The day gets away from me, it always does. Life is wasted on me.
I can’t imagine going to sleep and waking up to tomorrow. I feel indifferent about it. I want to give up and live in the woods. I wan’t to burn everything I own and let the world swallow me up; turn into the desert chaparral and sway in the painted wind.
I want to feel midnight endlessly. I need to walk outside to see the stars to remind me that I’m not alone. But I can’t see them in this town.
Stuck in place but suspended in time. A prisoner of my mind. Confined by mistrust in my intuition. It has failed me so many times that I don’t know up from down.
I question whether it is the day, or whether its me.