These are not stories.

Dragging my feet. Dragging my whole body. When did I get so heavy? When did I get so weak? My soul is filled with concrete blocks. I guess I should be thankful I’m able to drag myself even a little bit. I watch people around me drag themselves down the street. Is this really all that’s left? Is this what we’re supposed to be grateful for?

I want help and I want to do it all by myself. It’s an annoying place to live, this land of stubbornness. What am I going to achieve doing all of this alone? Why can’t I just break down and admit I was wrong and that I need the world’s help? I already know the answer. The world doesn’t care. I’m not special. And I know it. There are many many more deserving people in much worse-off situations.

I don’t know how to smile. I don’t remember ever knowing how. I don’t know if I have the muscles. I can stand in front of a mirror and pull my cheeks out to mimic what I think it’s supposed to look like.

Somehow I keep dragging myself along. Time doesn’t stop. Time keeps moving along. Even asleep, time keeps moving and I keep dragging my heavy body down the street.

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