I forgot to make a door

I had earlier decided that I would be writing a post every night before going to bed. I have failed to do so. I had thought writing down my feelings on a piece of paper (or a blog, alternatively) would help release the negativity that weighs me down - as per popular belief.

Even such a trivial task like this is an ordeal. Nowadays, everything is. I even struggle with the burden of holding my head in place these days. And I am not exaggerating. My neck muscles are badly strained. It hurts so much, it makes me cry.

But then again, everything does nowadays. Even nothing does. 

Well, turns out even looking at this white-screened window makes me cry.

Does anybody have any idea, the remotest even, how difficult the most mundane things, chores, routines have become for me? How much effort they take? How they drain me completely?

What do I want? What do I have? Who do I have?

I have walls around me; thick walls, bunker-thick. I built these walls. And... I forgot to make a door. 

There is no door. 

It's dark and damp inside, it gets hard to breathe at times. And there's a stench of rot.

Do you know how it smells like when a soul rots?

The heart wants what it wants

"... - or else it does not care."

I haven't washed my hair; it's been seven days. Last I washed my face with some thing other than just plain water - some sort of soap - was some days ago. The soles of my feet are black and dirty - an uncanny resemblance to my soul perhaps, who knows. I have been wearing the same t-shirt since... over a week now. I haven't put on any fresh clothing since then, except for when I go to work during the day - sane enough (yet) to adhere to social standards of upkeep.

And yet the outside world is of the idea that I live a close to perfect life. Now that's some achievement.

Or is it?

The fire that burns within and keeps us alive, is dead inside me. It's now a pile of ash - it might have taken everything with it. There could be an ember hidden under that pile somewhere, dying but not dead yet. Or there could be nothing. A part of me hopes it's not nothing - while the other, well, the other doesn't give a damn.

What does my heart want? And why won't it speak to me in a goddamn proper syntax? Beats me.

Reclamation

It's been forever.