A relentless dream haunts me.
It whispers in my sleep. It follows me from room to room, as I wake. I wander, weak and weary, though the word it whispers is not “nevermore”.
Sometimes, it’s a statement. Try, because you know that you should. Some times it’s a shout, pure rage and hot bubbling anger. Try! Do better.
Most heartbreakingly, and most often, it is a question. When you catch me staring off into the distance, unknowingly frowning a small, vulnerable frown, the question is whispering past my head, like mist.
Try? it asks, carrying other questions with it. Questions like “now?” and “please?” and, the worst, “maybe today?”
Evidence overwhelmingly points to the idea that I do not want to try.
Some days it feels like fighting. Like tooth and nail, I scratch and claw at myself for every lost moment that drifted away in a lack of work.
Some days it feels like molasses, like stepping out into pure humidity of sloth and entropy. Even the air is soup and I can’t imagine the creation of anything. Not that day.
And sometimes I wake up at three in the morning feeling like I’m going to cry.
It’s hard to describe the death of potential. Every day, a new stage of grief for what could be. What should have been. I’ve invented new phases like “extended nap times” and “binge watching tv”. I cycle through the usual suspects too, one at a time, just out of order and on repeat. My life is a playlist on shuffle and I’m begging anyone, absolutely anyone to inject something into it.
Except that it has to be me.
I’ve tried everything at this point. I’ve tried exercise, be it at the gym, yoga, or just sit-ups in front of the tv. I’ve tried self-help books, YouTube, TedTalks. I’ve talked to family, friends, therapists. I’ve tried to force it, I’ve tried to let it come naturally.
I’m losing the war of putting in effort. Any effort. At all.
I have yet to find the diligence to try.
I know it must come from myself. The whispers have come from deep within me, and so should the solutions. But “solutions” and “motivation” are too abstract for me to grasp over breakfast each and every day. There’s too many little distractions, like “what am I going to eat?” and “what needs to happen today?” for me to concentrate on long-term planning.
There’s always tomorrow.
Twenty-five years of tomorrows so far. That’s 9,125 days. Nine thousand days.
How is that not enough? How is looking at that number not plenty? How does it not force me to start, right now, today?
Enough time in my life has been spent.
Some days I need to save.