Unfulfilled
Prose by Ada J. Raven
It’s quarter after 3 in the morning and I’m still awake. I was tidying up the house and feeling uninspired, uninterested, un-… I don’t know, un-something.
Not that there’s nothing to do. There most certainly is. But none of it is fulfilling. Not really.
It’s repetitive and stagnant. Static. Nothing new from day-to-day.
As warm water flows over the rubber gloves, something that was therapeutic once, I feel my eyes glaze over.
I don’t know what I’m thinking about… everything and nothing.
All the things in the world I can’t change on my own but the injustice of it all is nearly unbearable.
I don’t want to hide from it… but engaging with it is traumatic.
I’m surprised more people aren’t agoraphobic. It’s enough to make most want to shut down and curl up.
Who knows, the year is still young. I may do so yet.
But for now, I tidy up, keep the house and myself clean, and wait for the promise of a happier future.
