Not Even a Wit

I don’t care. My insides hurt. Despite my love for academia I want to see my career go down in flames. I can’t live up to peoples expectations. Why is everyone so helpful and concerned? My internal void eternally exists simultaneously with the black sludge weighing me down. Hollow and filled with suffocation. I’m dizzy with it. My destiny is to fail with flair. This I know. This is no plea for assistance. I hate that I am some emo fucking teenage child in my psyche, despite being a supposed adult. This has set with no warning. A few minutes ago I was feeling no pain. There were no whispers of coming, no scouts or heralds or two weeks notice. My misery coalesces in my gut and solidifies into a malignant mass. I will not claw, I will not tear, I will curl up and resign by self to be buffeted by the gale. Shut myself off from reality; cocoon my self in the fabric of make-believe until it passes. It always does. If the occasional whimper escapes me, it does not matter; I close my eyes so the world cannot see me. My nails bitten down and the consolation to the hard work of resistance is that this is safer. End of the year blues? I ache, I ache, in my wrists and ankles, finger joints, where thigh meets pelvis, the small of my back, the span of my shoulders, the curve of my neck, check, temple, bridge of my nose. I’m taking shelter in the arms of the sandman’s sweet oblivion. Tomorrow is another day, and after all the sun will be shining, and come that rising I will not be looking at the prospect with distaste.