The Wait Is Killing Me

It's been another day where I have done nothing but sleep. I seem to be having a lot of these lately, days where any activity seems like more than I would wish to do, where any difficulty in getting out of my apartment is enough to keep me in. Inertia. I am an object at rest. I will remain at rest until some outside force causes me to move. As to a force causing me to stop, that's an easy one. You already know the answer.

I was going to go out today, but fate and the weather had other plans. So instead I stayed in, looking out my window, drifting through the day, sometimes waking, sometimes sleeping, all the time aware of the cold and snow just outside my window. It is still winter, for a while yet.

I'm tired of waiting. I would say the waiting is killing me, but that is far to trite, the obvious irony dripping from it like syrup down the side of pancakes. Yet I am tired of the wait. I want to do something in that time, be active in what remains of my time here. I want to go somewhere, do something, meet someone, eat, drink, play.

Then it happens. I start doing something. Within minutes I am so tired I have to stop. Carrying the laundry down the haul means taking a half an hour afterwards to allow my ever diminishing body to recover. Going over to the mall, especially in this weather, feels like a million mile trek. I need encouragement, a reason to go, a need that takes me somewhere worth the weariness.

It's not that I can't; it's that my default state has become inert, without motion. My muscles have weakened to the point their own absolute zero, that place where all movement stops. The muscles in my legs have so diminished that their shape has now become bent, following the line of the bone, rather than the shape of the muscle, only curved a bit somehow. My left foot forever points outwards unless forced in. I have lost that one golden jewel on my feet; I can no longer wiggle my big toe, not at all.

I suppose I shall say it. It's just laying there staring in my face. Yes, the wait is killing me. I'm now a long term member in a club people are dying to get out of. Perhaps I will watch something on Netflix, folding laundry one piece at a time with a rest of five or ten minutes between each piece. I'll drink some wine; the wine bottle is getting heavier, heavy enough that I now use two hands sometimes. Maybe I will eat; I don't need much these days, so potato salad from Costco and perhaps a few sardines.

My God my life has become so pathetic.