Seeds

Nothing pleases me anymore. I used to enjoy things—small things, big things—but now I enjoy nothing at all. I drift through the days, lost in the endless scroll of my phone, numbing myself with the comfort of meaninglessness. Thinking leads to sadness, and sadness is unbearable. So, I don't think. Not if I can help it.

I run. Not in the literal sense—my body stays still while my mind sprints from everything: my past, my grief, myself. Feeling numb has become less of a side effect and more of a goal, a lifestyle, an aesthetic. Not thinking is my new form of self-expression. I've become a machine, a hollow creature powered by algorithms and distraction, clicking and swiping my way past anything that threatens to feel real.

Banality feels safer now. Ignorance, preferable. And honestly... maybe that's why there are so many ignorant people in the world. Maybe they've figured it out. Maybe they know what I'm just starting to learn—that reality is brutal, merciless, and wildly overrated. Isn't it better to drift through life untethered, untouched by the past?

She disagrees, of course. The shrink. She says this is unhealthy, that if I don't let myself feel, it will all build up until it bursts. Transbord, she called it, like water spilling over a rim. But then I ask her: Fine. Give me something better, then. If the choice is between feeling pain or feeling nothing, how is numbness the wrong answer? Who decided that silence of the mind is somehow pathological? Why isn't existing quietly enough?

I used to be ambitious once. Driven. A person with plans, with purpose. Now, I've become someone who simply waits. Waits for the end. For death. For the quiet relief that promises to come eventually. Because no matter where I go, She is there. Not the shrink—no. The other She. The shadow. The grief. The thing with no face and a thousand voices. She follows me, hiding just out of sight, whispering, mocking, playing cruel games, setting traps I no longer have the energy to avoid.

I don't fight her anymore. I just wait. Wait and hope. Hope she gets to me before life finds another excuse to drag me back to her doorstep. I hope. I dream. I wait. And then I dream again.

Somewhere along the line, I became the thing Sylvia Plath feared most: the educated corpse. The mind filled with knowledge but emptied of purpose. A soul capable of anything but motivated by nothing. And maybe that's the cruelest irony—knowing enough to hate everything, including yourself.

When do I feel happy? When I'm anticipating something. A trip, a conversation, a project—anything that promises to be different. But the thing never lives up to the fantasy. Anticipation is always sweeter than reality. Just like sex—better in theory, disappointing in practice.

I was never a people pleaser. I never understood why people cry instead of getting angry. Anger felt cleaner, sharper, more productive. But even anger feels exhausting now. I sigh more than I speak. I wait more than I act. I want things—I do—but wanting never seems to translate into doing. I stay still. Watching the world go by, like a passenger too tired to disembark.

I try to make sense of my own mind. I try, truly. But it's maddening—watching everyone fumble around, blind to things that seem so obvious to me. And I wonder: if the shrink can't figure me out, maybe I can. Maybe I already have. My journal holds more answers than her office ever could. After all, no one knows me better than me. They don't live in this flesh prison. I do.

I am. Therefore, I know. And I am tired.