Rest. Gosh, I need it.
I’ve never felt this much cold in years. Reigning, everlasting sickness. Realizing I have a body.
Senses are numb.

Sickness is pulling me by the strings.
Fever is dragging me from being a spectator.
It hurts opening my eyes. I have to sit with you, thoughts.
At least there is a reason to do nothing.
A reason to be calm, useless.

A distraction from being stressed never entered my mind. The body asks first.

People’s cuts, my cold. There is nothing to think about, only to beg for a day. My hands shake. That is enough.

Source   c. 1914 - Lewis Hine
As crises unfold, there is a realization that I have no instincts, only habits. The habit of waking up. Darkness, even if I change. The darkness stays with me, not because of suffering, but because of the absence of necessity. It is what I want. It is what I get.

I don’t know if I have grown into privilege or if there is no desire. I will do what I want to, and eventually I will. For now, I’ll just sit and stagnate. Calm, indulging at my speed. I don’t have anything to do, or at least I think.

"I am nothing to anyone, and that is my freedom." — Franz Kafka

The future looks grim. I couldn’t care enough. Carelessness, no movement, nothing is expected. I will live a lonesome life. Cruel to say, being privileged and surrounded by people.

At least I have someone. I feel bad for who cares.
If I don't trust myself.
How could you be trusted?
The sun will set. I’ll have nothing.
There will be no thinking. I’ll have to be responsible.
Responsibility at the cost of everything.
Money, but no one to spend it with.

"The man in ecstasy and the man drowning both throw up their arms."
— Franz Kafka

I am at fault. There is no mental stress. It’s me and the things I create. The pitfalls I create.

No decision feels urgent, for now. Urgency belongs to people with somewhere to go. I stay where I am. The cold understands this.