Absolute Listlessness

I feel like I’m ninety years old. Every little thing seems to cost way too much energy: folding a towel, walking a few paces, making some tea . . . Even moving my fingers across the keyboard to form words, and keeping my eyes focused. Writing a few paragraphs without slumping down to the ground is the most active I've been all day. Yay, me . . .

Why do I seem to age dozens of years overnight sometimes? I’m not like this all the time. But when I am, the only thing I want to do is close my tired eyes, collapse and sleep forever, so that I never feel this way again. So listless, so feeble, so drained . . . Half a corpse, stumbling on stupidly, aimlessly. I can think of nothing at all to do that would bring me joy; nothing at all seems appealing. Nothing. It’s like all the world is suddenly coloured a dull grey, making anything and everything uninteresting, and it seems my limbs have turned to lead, dragging me further down with every weak step I take.

At times like this I feel no life left in me. I hate it when this happens, but I hardly experience the hatred; it is nothing but a faraway thought. There is only a vague sadness somewhere, and it makes me wish I had something to rage at. I wish I could feel a strong surge of self-hatred, even. At least it would give me something to be excited about. At least through anger I would feel alive. Absolute listlessness is a fate much worse than death.