My lack of interest in...everything has reached an all-time high. I don't want to see people, I don't want to go out, I don't want to do anything. I want to sleep until the world fails.
I had an interesting conversation with my mother today. I told her I was tired, that I wanted to nap, and she exclaimed, "You're nineteen! Why on earth are you tired?" (Cue my bored answer and the tiny click! of me hanging up.)
I'm tired, mom, because there is nothing that I want to get out of bed for. Does she really expect me to jump up in the morning with a smile on my face...to go to an 8 a.m. physics lab? I refuse to waste my excitement on something that drains the life out of me. Ah well.
Wouldn't it be just wonderful if, somehow, the world that's inside your head, that marvelous place of no responsibility and passion and wide-eyed innocence, that forgotten dream of wonderment and creation, that out of reach fairytale of life and beauty, jumped off the pages and became real? If that was the world that was awaiting beyond the confines of my small, modest bed, well, I'd gladly wipe the muck out of my eyes and dance my way through the day, no matter how early the sun chose to rise. But, instead, I look out my window and see what really is waiting for me. And what I see does not impress. What I see is like a needle to my fantasy balloon. POP! It's gone.
And my bed looks awfully comfortable.