wasted

I thought it was bad when I couldn’t do the things I needed to do— when food became a foreign ritual, and sleep was a fractured dream. When the laundry piled up, silent in the corner, and the trash remained untouched, an offering to my inertia. I thought that was the worst it could get. But here I am— begging myself to move, to feel something, to drive, to breathe in the world outside, to see the sunset and let it fill me. And yet, I can't even get out of bed. I want to. I want it so badly, my soul aches for it. I would give anything to rise, to feel the pulse of living again. But the hours pass— slipping, swimming like quicksilver, too fast, too distant. Where did they go? Where did I go? Four hours, fours hours spent pleading with a self that cannot respond, crying, aching for the strength that has abandoned me. I cannot move. I am here, still, wasted.