There is a sensation that I wish does not come to you.
You are up, the sunlight wakes you. What is the beginning of the day feels like an end of you, to you.
You try to shake these lifeless thoughts but in a blink, they have rusted and you can no longer repair them.
You have lost control of your bodily functions, the mental capacity of your brain is fucked up beyond repair.
All you feel is a lack of desire. The desire of all is extinguished.
It is like the loss that penetrates you whole, an aftermath of a fire, like a ghost you don’t want inside you, the struggle ends and you let it stay.
The end of you.
You are unaware of your own thoughts.
They are so rapid it almost is a shapeless blur. But the impact is still there.
You can feel it but you can’t recognise the cause of it, the source of it, the start of it, it.
A remnant of a motivation returns but you know it is like the fart of a dead body.
So you let it pass too.
You think about thinking about thinking about being something but realising you never ever being something.
You realise this very state of not being able to move at all is what your whole life has been.
Instead of getting inspired by the deeds of the statues you saw in a museum you inherited the statue’s ability to stay still instead.
You recognise yourself to be a statue now.
Finally, you feel that you have made a judgement for once in a long time.
I am a statue.
The function of a statue is to immortalise a figure and it stands as a reminder for the people of the stature of that person, the things they did to have them immortalised.
Your tryst with truth finally arrives. Your desire to become immortalised is given a shape and you can’t even see yourself.
You wish you had a mirror right above you.
Right above this bed.
Right above you.
To see the immortalised version of you.
In the hopes of once seeing yourself like this, wishing of a supernatural phenomenon of you leaving your body and flying above to see your body, the statue of you, you stay. You stay still.