Yet Another

It's just another day, in all actuality.  And I don't have much of anything to say.  Or rather, I have plenty that I could say, but none of it matters, I don't care about any of it, and I'm worn out.  So I'm not even going to bother saying anything.  Not that any of it is worth reading in the first place, so I don't know why I'd bother putting it down at all.

So sure, something started today.  Something I've been sometimes anticipating, sometimes dreading, sometimes simply existing with.  It doesn't actually change anything.  None of it does.  This is just my fatigued rambling by now.  It doesn't mean anything.  It's just me throwing down words to make up sentences that don't even flow because I keep telling myself I have to write.

And I'm sitting here listening to conversation floating around in the background, seemingly too much of it about me.  None of it hidden, none of it negative, even.  But I don't want to join in.  I want to curl up and sleep.  It's been a long day, as most beginnings are.  And yet, oddly enough, it feels like nothing changed at all.  Like I'm simply continuing to exist here.  Which, in all actuality, is all I'm doing at all anyway.