Blanket

I remember one day four years ago having used the expression, "a blanket of sorrow." That comes back to me now, but in a slightly different form. I feel as though I am under a blanket. I am not numb, I am warm, and comfortable. But something about it isn't right. I can't reach the world around me.

I wonder if I pulled the blanket over myself to protect me from the world or if I woke up this morning to find myself incapable of shedding this cover. I'm at a point of fatigue or exhaustion or perhpas something else where I can sit here for hours, awake, thinking, and just not move. Perhaps the expression on my face wouldn't even change. I don't really know why or how. But there is no tension, nor excitement. Everything is monotone and existent.

When I walk outside, I feel the cold wind flushing my face and bringing tears running out of my eyes and down my cheeks. Yet it doesn't penetrate. It is only affecting my skin. I do not feel my body, I do not feel my emotions. I have even almost lost the ability to act as though everything is alright. I try to ignore questions and shrug off concerns, and I don't think it has worked very well. I'm trying to drown myself in music, but even that isn't hitting me as nicely as I would like it to. So I guess I can do nothing more than simply sit here waiting for a blow to knock me back to reality.