Nothing Matters

Writing practice…

It’s hard to find the strength to move on from something which grounds you so heavily, devouring every joule of energy left within the anchored corpse left behind. You often find yourself standing and staring and just breathing, wondering what the point of everything really is.

 The 7 o’clock sunrise glares through the splits between each crumpled curtain, the alarm blares through the sheets covering your face as you hope the battery may just give in. 

Why haven’t you left the house? A combination of your ambition to succeed and your mother’s worried, wild questioning. Education is the best thing that will ever happen to you, embrace it whilst you have the chance, she says. Limbs weak with passionless fatigue curl into the mattress, hoping it’s comforting grasp may envelope and swallow you deep into the colourless sponge below.

12pm- time to eat. Why? What’s the point?  It doesn’t seem to matter. Your stomach isn’t crying for food, you can stand without the taste of meat and sugar and savoury-sweetness on your lips; you don’t need to eat. You then proceed to scoff more calories than your week allows, arms violently feeding the habit you try and subdue. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, the rusty fingers of a wall clock creep across a white plain, nearing the vertical position you desire so intensely that it seems to move even slower than physically possible. Faceless beings all around, same hair cuts, same boring voices, same boring ideas. You think of all the people you’ve met in your lifetime and all of those people you’ve aspired to be like, fallen in love with. You can’t see those faces anymore. You can’t hear their voices, not without fighting the tide, anyway.

It’s nearly 4, finally, you can crawl back into the white folds where dreams visit and nightmares reside. Back to the shallow depths where you can just about keep your head above water; salty waves that suffocate the mind and tearfully emerge like rainfall from a fragile cloud.

Consider the day. What was the point? The 300th sigh of the scheduled 600 overcomes you. Sinking, your head rests on tender palms, soft unwashed skin settles against them. Make-up pasted in an attempt to look alive, for no-one other than yourself. The small strokes of black magic seem to give you a spirit required to open those shutters and search desperately for the reasons they opened that same morning.

Nothing matters.

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