Can't and Won't

I can’t do this anymore. It’s tiresome. It’s exhausting and it doesn’t benefit me.

I’m sitting in my kitchen and stare down at my paperwork. I’ve accomplished nothing. Luckily, I didn’t spill any tears on it.

I wipe at my face, but the tears have already dried.

I can’t concentrate.

The assignment isn’t hard and yet I can’t put the matching pieces together. I can see them, clear as day. I can, but I . . .

I don’t feel good.

It’s not the hollow kind of feeling that plagues me. I’m not numb. No, it’s worse than that. It’s worse than that. My brain threatens to wander off -- or switch off completely if I don’t give 110%. I try hard to focus. I try even harder to think straight. My mind is derailing and full with other issues I have no control over. Personal quarrels. A friend I can’t rely on. They don’t reply to my texts or calls. It makes me feel weak, and it makes me question just how close we truly are. I thought we were best friends, able to talk and exchange trust.

Seems I was wrong. Perhaps I don’t mean so much to them after all.

Now I’m all alone in my kitchen with eyes that feel swollen and puffy.

I can’t do this anymore.

I want a way out.

I have a bathtub. I don’t have a toaster. I have kitchen knives.

Should I take the easy way out, my body would rot for a few days -- until the stench bothers my neighbours.

I live a seclusive life in a big city. I’m anonymous. Family lives scattered around the world. Friend doesn’t reply or ask how I am.

I own a hamster that gives me some sort of companionship. It’s nocturnal -- the time when I do most of my work.

Colleagues wouldn’t bother asking about me. If I don’t show they’d think I’m sick and perhaps wish me well.

I’m not hated. Sometimes I’m cynical, but that’s how I am. The base of my personality is kindness. I’m nice and polite. I’m a hard worker too. No one ever suspects these kind of people to wish a way out of the situation. Out of life. Perhaps I work too hard. I’m all work and no play.

Sometimes I try to escape into another world by reading a book or by playing a game -- but that never lasts. Time and again, I’m dragged back into reality. I’m dragged back to stare into the mirror and make myself presentable.

Lately, all I’ve been seeing in the mirror is emptiness. I look at that person and I see someone else. I look into those eyes and I see a shell. That’s not me. It’s someone else. It’s alien; it’s strange; it’s not me.

If you’re wondering, yes, I have tried to look at everything in a different light. I do see the benefits and opportunities, but I don’t perceive and I don’t act.

I’m tired.

I want to sleep.

Of course I can still go on. I can still lead a life like many others do. They exist too. They’re tired too. They breathe, but they’re not alive. Many are like me, and they all hide it behind a smile and a guarded private life.

I can push myself to my limit, over and over and over and over again, but to what effect and at what cost?

Of course I can still go on. I can drink my coffee, stretch my lips, pretend to be alive and move on.

I can, but the issue is, I don’t want to.