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.