No, maybe it’s Tuesday,
Scratch that, it has to be Friday by now.
I don’t know anymore, and if I’m being really honest, I don’t care.
I can’t keep track of my days.
Everything blurs together. Everything is the same.
What is the point?
Why do I open my eyes every MondayTuesdayFriday?
To eat Cheerios and attempt to fight the inevitable death I will face in time?
To smile at the air, at the ground, at strangers whose mouths turn up and down robotically?
To type letters in sequence we declare “words”?
Are they supposed to mean something?
If you say a word enough, your brain realizes you’re not making sense.
Does it still look okay to you?
How about now?
It’s lost its meaning to me.
Everything has lost its meaning to me.
Do I open my eyes every MondayTuesdayFriday to do sit ups in hope for a “summer body”?
To impress you?
To impress me?
To impress God?
I know by that look of disdain, you could not care less.
I, myself, am unimpressed,
And nobody can impress God.
So what is the point?
I live in this state of uncertainty, of blurriness, of never knowing what day it is, and I feel ill in this MondayTuesdayFriday place in which I reside.