Starting over is another chore.
Another necessity.
One more thing remained unaccomplished.
One more arbitrary rule.

Maybe I should just sleep.
Sleep and recede into the somnolence.
Fade off into nothing.
Of note.

And never was.
Something.
Just.
Loss

It's that potent despair.
Standing over a dead life.
Gone before the miracle appeared.
And mundane.
Some realization I'm not quite where I want to be.
Or as high as I'd like.
But tomorrow is a curse cast from my yesterdays.
Today is a wallowing disgust.
And, my past, an abomination.
Why am I alive.
Just to struggle through the hard bits and reward myself with sloth. I spend a lot of days staring at nothing.
Hours.  Just.  Passing by.

It really wasn't supposed to be like this.
This banal.
This mundane.

I was supposed to be some kinda.
Something.
By now.

The torpor is aftertaste.
The depression.
Par for the course.