Momentum of the mundane

I do stuff. And then I cry. I do some more stuff. And then I cry. That’s pretty much the content of my life right now. It’s an accumulation of forced efforts. I think about death. And I think about life. Possibilities. Darkness. I want to give up. But I won’t. The thought is alluring. All I can do is one day at a time. There are gaps in between when I’m okay. When I laugh, tell a joke. Look forward to stuff. And then there are the times I cannot sleep. And times when I sleep so deeply I cannot, don’t want to, wake. The dispute between dark and light is constant. Solutions resolved in death. But I don’t. I carry on shouldering a weight that doesn’t want to shift. No matter my efforts. The mundane is an interminable struggle. My life has become microscopic, whittled down to the fundamental tasks of living. I lose track of days, make mistakes. I’m confused by the most simple of complexities. But somehow I manage to wake, and every day perform the basics of living, without actually living and hope against all hope that the momentum of my cumulative efforts, the momentum of the mundane, can carry me out of this depression.

Against all odds, I forced myself to paint my kitchen cabinets on the weekend.  Sadly, these days I feel no joy.  I'm sure I'll be satisfied with my efforts sometime soon.

Against all odds, I forced myself to paint my kitchen cabinets on the weekend (at around 3am on Saturday). Sadly, these days I feel no joy. I’m sure I’ll be satisfied with my efforts sometime soon.

And today? I wore earrings and put a shiny ring on my finger before I left for work. *sigh* life is in the details, right?

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