Thought of the Week: On the Cycle Goes

Tonight’s post was very difficult to write. I can say that with authority, having penned only a line of it, because life itself is becoming increasingly difficult.

Again.

It’s so frustrating, so wearisome, to be locked into a cycle that never, ever changes. Good days come, and then they go, and I’m left clueless as to how to carry on. I haven’t showered in three days; I feel dirty, useless and exhausted—an exhaustion that no amount of sleep can relieve.

The world is tainted once more.

I haven’t taken any medication in several weeks now, and I can’t tell if it ever made a difference. I know I didn’t go cold turkey this time, and that might be a contributing factor; for quite some time I’ve felt pretty upbeat (see my post from earlier this month). But now … the best word I have to describe my state of being is fragile. I just can’t tell if I’m about to take a fatal plunge into despair once more.

I’m so tired of struggling. I’m tired of paying to be healthy. I’m tired of having to remember things. I’m tired of coming home every day from work so exhausted I can’t type a single line of The Redemption of Erâth. I’m tired of pretending.

I’m losing. I can feel it, feel the energy whispering away like air from collapsing lungs. The release of History of Erâth, NaNoWriMo, editing Exile … it’s rapidly becoming meaningless—vapid, pointless exercises in futility. Nobody wants to read what I’ve written. Nobody cares.

Why am I here? What’s compelling me to write tonight at all? Do I owe you words? A laughable attempt at a weekly post, when I didn’t post last week, and I probably won’t post next week. This blog is a joke, and so am I.

On the cycle goes. I’ll drown, and I’ll resurface later. I’ll drown again. Always the same, always the pain of knowing that nothing lasts. I might go silent for the rest of the year. I might manage my 50,000 words in November.

I might never write again.

The world is tainted once more. Meaning drops from life like rotten fruit from dying trees. Why wake up? Why go to work? Why write, or cook dinner?

Empty, useless words. Perhaps I can smother myself in the minutiae of tiny details, stop myself from thinking, from asking why. You can’t ask why, you just can’t.

Because there isn’t an answer. There are only fools.

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