Illustration by GG
You don't want to get out of bed. You don't care to dress. To eat. To open your mouth and say something to those who talk to you. It's just not worth the effort. Whatever color there is has leeched out and it all looks grey, and there is pain in your stomach that can't be there and yet you feel it. It's plenty real. And for no reason you start crying and can't stop, and when asked what's wrong, you can't explain. You don't know. And it doesn't seem to matter to try to understand. What's the point? It's easier to let them roll, the tears. Then when exhausted from crying, it's easier to curl up and maybe fall asleep, if sleep decides to come. It plays the same game as the people around you. It seems to want to extract some kind of a reason out of you, the reason you're so down, before it decides to relieve you.
Nothing is worth the effort. You can't move your fingers, your head, your eyes. You can stare at your shoes or at the wall for hours, and the time will trickle by slowly, as if to tease you, to mock you. You have flashes of impulses to get up and do something, but then you forget why it's important and stay inert. Why bother? Then even the question disappears. It's no longer there. You no longer wonder why. You wonder nothing.
You begin to want to die.