I don't want to do this anymore. It is altogether meaningless to me. I nod and nod as though my head were attached to a spring. I sit here in my cubbie hole and know I should be doing something but I can't get out of my seat, my arms are weighed down by manacles of noxious lead, they corrode into my flesh and burn apart my nerves. My hands are either shaking or they are paralyzed. One or the other. I am on an island and joy would flood my heart if I could sink or drift far away from here. He is looking at me, to me, and I have nothing but a dull emptiness to impart. I don't know why I should care so much what he thinks of me and shamed for how little I care to change anything anyway. It's a struggle everyday. Despairing, it is a constant struggle. I need time to do it well, to line up to take my shot, but the short balls catch me flat-footed. I move like a buffalo in a rice padi, thick hide bearing whiplashes that pour some pain, shame, yet I am too stupid to actually move. One foot in front of the other. Raving mad inside. Searching for satisfaction where it doesn't exist, making it up. All good denied so only pointlessness is left. I don't care enough anymore. It scares me, pains me because I want to care about what I do. I want to be a person who cares about what he does. I never imagined I would be who I am now. Shiftless. I suck. I get worse and worse at what I do and I can't bring myself, feet dragging, drugged, to do better. I want to and I don't want to. Most of the time, I just want to die. I am listless, vacant, let-down, letting down. I want to leave this place but fear what dreams may come. I am scared to stay and lose myself. Scared to run away. I will lose it all. My spirit, my desire to live, live as fully as I should unless I arrest this falling. Spent. I don't. I can't take one more day, week, year. Spent. I am finished, approaching an age, oh my God.