I have no desire to go outside. I still wear hoodies, though it's summer. I still wear jeans because I never get too warm in an air conditioned house. I still don't wear shoes because I never wear shoes.
I have no desire to pick up my guitar and strum and hum the blues like I used to. She stays in the case where I admire her from a distance. She stays in the corner and collects dust as I spit excuses as to why I can't play her. She stays there to keep me company in my room for one.
I have no desire to write. I won't scribble poems in the margins of my notebooks. I won't fill up ridiculous amounts of memory on my phone texting letters to people who aren't here. I won't type my life to a blog that used to be my best friend.
I have no desire to move. I lay about doing nothing in particular. I lay in bed trying to take a nap, though I took one just minutes prior. I lay on the floor listening to vinyl that's been played hundreds of times that day.
I could tell you what I don't want, but not what I actually do want.
I should tell you that this will pass over.
I won't.
But, now I've contradicted this whole post.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not depressed or anything like that. Never. I don't know what it is, this lost motivation of mine. Let it be boredom, let it be exhaustion. Whatever it is, let it be.
Whit Happens
