The Unbearable Lightness of Being

I don't want to be awake or asleep. I don't want to breathe or eat or watch T.V. or take my laundry to Modern Cleaners. I don't want to read. I don't want to paint. I don't want to play the violin. I don't want to vacuum or do the dishes. I don't want to see anybody and I don't care about the poster or the test or the story or the box of stuff that needs to go to DI. I don't really want to sit here and watch the low clouds outside the window and I don't really want to write, but I find that's what I'm doing and I don't want to fight. I don't want to cry, but I could easily do that, too, except I wouldn't know what I was crying for and I'd be mad. I'd rather stay apathetic. I'd like to go for a drive, but I don't want to get gas and I don't want to see that there's no sun on the hills, even though it's in the forties and yesterday's snow has melted off. I don't want to leave the house, but I don't want to stay here. I almost wish I had to work today- then I'd have to be somewhere. I don't even want to take pictures or pick flowers or drink rum. I wish it wasn't trying to be spring. I wish it just was.