I wake up in the morning.
It is hard to get out of bed.
But the presence of my cat and the thought of a warm cup of coffee lures me out slowly,
Surely.
Every morning, I wake up starved of meaning and purpose;
Though, this absence is oddly painless to ignore in the morning.
In the morning,
Nothing is real.
In the morning I put on an innovative charade.
In hopes it will bring about a change of pace.
It never does.

Every day it seems to become more apparent to me that I struggle with most things people find ordinary.
And, effortless.
Every day I am let down by my efforts.
Every day it is a continuous descent and degradation into an ultimate and underlying dissatisfaction with what I encounter every day and with most human beings and the lives they live and with life itself.
It resides in the core of who I am.
I can't hide from it.
I can't cover it.
It doesn't go away.
Every day everything that should not prevail, does.
Every day.
No one would understand.
No one can.
Every day is the same.
Days feel like weeks to me.
Days and days and days.
What are days, besides a limitation on time?
I would enjoy and value the ability to live a life without the rigid limitations everyone and everything has always set for me.
Not possible.
Nothing utterly enjoyable is ever truly promising,
Or achieving.

Every night I crawl into my bed,
Tired.
Every night I cannot seem to sleep.
I lay there,
Awake,
Waiting.
I lay there in darkness,
Waiting for happiness to find me again;
To kiss me goodnight and advise sweet dreams;
To guarantee that when I wake up in the morning it will not all be the same.
Every night.
It never comes.
Every night the bed is empty.
I am vacant,
Always. 
Empty. 
I can be found contemplating my loneliness,
Every night.
Every night I have to prepare myself for every morning.
Every morning and every day and every night.