Days and nights blend into each other, incoherent swirls of desire and indolence. She lunges on the couch- cellphone laptop, TV, book, pen, novel. The vacation is like a blank Word document, blinking insertion point and all, waiting for words that will never be written. Sighing, she presses delete.
It’s funny how quickly one can get tired of boredom. NO, she thinks, it’s the laziness she’s tired of. She’s tired of being lazy, and too lazy to do anything about it, to start something. She wishes she were burdened with cares and responsibilities, because there’s nothing more disgusting than the way she’s accepted her laziness and her casual sense of entitlement. She hates both, hates the way she’s accepted them, but she’s accepted the hate too, so it all works out.
She wishes that she could want. Guilt accompanies that thought, because Daddy works so hard to make sure his baby has everything, but she wishes there was something she wanted so badly that her heart bled every second. She wishes for something to pursue, some goal to chase after so hard, so fast that her lungs burst, and after all that chasing, when it was still out of reach, she could burst into red tears and cry till her throat hurt. She wishes she felt strongly about something.
There are many things to feel strong about, but she simply can’t bring herself to. It’s silly and sad and more than a little pathetic, but that’s just it. She flows, and she’s willing to sit back and think, well, if it’s out of my reach, I tried. When she really didn’t.
She can’t begin to fathom the meaning of the word ‘try’. It’s one thing she’s never done. One of many