Skr9
Skratch
I wake to the same gray light that has learned my name. The ceiling above me is a thin. uninterested sky. The room around me is small. as if the walls themselves are leaning in to listen for the sound of my next disappointment. My body moves through the motions out of habit. a hand reaches for the kettle. my feet find the floor. But inside there is a hollow. an old echo that answers every step with the question. why keep going?
My chest feels like a room with locked doors. When I try to open one. it resists. cold metal against my palms. The soul that lives here paces in secret. a tenant trapped behind glass. It remembers bright things. a laugh at a summer fair. the safety of being held. a future that once stretched open like the horizon. Those memories arrive now like postcards from a place I no longer belong to. I can see them. touch their edges. but I cannot cross the glass to join them.
Every small task is an ordeal. Sending a message becomes a mountain climbed with fingers that tremble. Preparing a meal takes concentration that my mind can't spare. The simplest chores stack into a to-do list with no checkboxes I can reach. I want to move faster. to be more. to earn what I need. but motion feels like wading through thick water. effort swallowed by resistance.
Working used to feel like purpose. Now it feels like a trial where the rules shift and the walls tighten. Interviews and applications are doors that slam before I can step through. Jobs that require energy and optimism ask for things I cannot give. Small failures become proofs. I am not enough. the world is a machine that grinds without regard for how exhausted its parts are. Bills pile like unread letters. each one a reminder that survival has become negotiation. between what I can offer and what the world demands.
Pain lives here as well. in the places that refuse to be ignored. aches that bloom overnight. headaches like distant storms. nerves raw from constant vigilance. Each hurt announces itself as if to remind me that the body is not merely vessel but prison. every movement. every thought is filtered. slowed. dampened. by the weight of flesh. The soul. wide and restless. bangs against the bars. Sometimes it sings. its songs are muffled and private. Sometimes it weeps. and the tears do not change the shape of the room.
Friends speak simple remedies with well-meant cheer. "Try this." they say. handing plans and pep. Their words sit like bright paper boats on my ocean of fatigue. I want to fold them into truth. I want to float. But the current here is slow and stubborn. and encouragement can feel like a mirror reflecting my own tiredness back at me in a kinder light. I am grateful. but gratefulness does not translate into energy.
There are hours when the world softens. a cat weaving between my legs. a sunbeam landing perfectly across a table. a stranger's small kindness. In those moments the glass becomes clearer. I remember that there is beauty even in weariness. that the soul still notices color. But the reprieve is short. The bills return. The body reasserts its limits. The traps reset. The cycle continues.
Sometimes I imagine an exit that is not an ending. I picture building a door in the glass. small at first. then larger. Maybe it opens with one honest conversation. or a brief time when pain eases enough to make a plan. or a hand that reaches through and lifts with no questions asked. I imagine a place where work is suited to what remains of my energy. where I am paid fairly for what I can give. I imagine the bars softened into railings. the prison into a room with a window that opens onto a wide. patient sky.
Until then. I learn small mercies. I break days into pieces I can manage. a single call. one easy task. a walk that ends at a bench rather than in accomplishment. I keep a list of things that once made me breathe easier. not as an obligation but as a map that might. if I follow it slowly. remind the soul that the world is not entirely hostile. I let the pain speak without pretending it does not matter. I say aloud. sometimes. that I am tired. so the sound of it does not live only in my head.
The truth is raw. I am worn. the body presses heavy. and money does not come when I need it. That is the present. But I carry a stubborn ember too. a memory of light that tells me the glass can be altered. I cannot burst free all at once. I begin with one small crack. one honest confession. one appointment kept. one kind thing given to myself. The cracks make room for air. They change the shape of the prison until it is no longer a cell. only a small room with a door.
On the worst days. I allow myself to sit with the sorrow and name it. On better days. I push the door a fraction farther open. Neither surrender nor triumph. simply a slow. steady tending. The soul inside waits. patient. resilient in ways the world rarely understands. It is tired. yes. It is bruised. But it keeps notice of color. of warmth. of small mercies. And sometimes. that rare. surprising sometimes. those things are enough to go on.
Pain becomes a background narrator. My back clenches after sitting too long. My knees complain on stairs. Headaches come uninvited. Sleep offers fragments not rest. Naps are currency I spend sparingly and regret. Food tastes like necessity rather than pleasure. I wish for energy like someone wishes for rain in a drought.
Money is a constant low-level panic. Bills arrive with polite certainty. A rent notice is an accusation. I calculate, re-calculate, postpone the phone call. I apply for gigs that vanish into silence. Friends suggest simple fixes. Their suggestions land like paper on stone. I try to explain and my words feel clumsy. Sometimes pride keeps me from asking for help. Sometimes shame does.
Social life narrows. Invitations arrive like lit windows I cannot enter. I make excuses that sound reasonable. On the inside I am rehearsing reasons not to go. Conversations drain me. Small talk is a distance I cannot bridge. Loneliness is not absence. It is the presence of everyone shifting away.
My chest feels like a room with locked doors. When I try to open one. it resists. cold metal against my palms. The soul that lives here paces in secret. a tenant trapped behind glass. It remembers bright things. a laugh at a summer fair. the safety of being held. a future that once stretched open like the horizon. Those memories arrive now like postcards from a place I no longer belong to. I can see them. touch their edges. but I cannot cross the glass to join them.
Every small task is an ordeal. Sending a message becomes a mountain climbed with fingers that tremble. Preparing a meal takes concentration that my mind can't spare. The simplest chores stack into a to-do list with no checkboxes I can reach. I want to move faster. to be more. to earn what I need. but motion feels like wading through thick water. effort swallowed by resistance.
Working used to feel like purpose. Now it feels like a trial where the rules shift and the walls tighten. Interviews and applications are doors that slam before I can step through. Jobs that require energy and optimism ask for things I cannot give. Small failures become proofs. I am not enough. the world is a machine that grinds without regard for how exhausted its parts are. Bills pile like unread letters. each one a reminder that survival has become negotiation. between what I can offer and what the world demands.
Pain lives here as well. in the places that refuse to be ignored. aches that bloom overnight. headaches like distant storms. nerves raw from constant vigilance. Each hurt announces itself as if to remind me that the body is not merely vessel but prison. every movement. every thought is filtered. slowed. dampened. by the weight of flesh. The soul. wide and restless. bangs against the bars. Sometimes it sings. its songs are muffled and private. Sometimes it weeps. and the tears do not change the shape of the room.
Friends speak simple remedies with well-meant cheer. "Try this." they say. handing plans and pep. Their words sit like bright paper boats on my ocean of fatigue. I want to fold them into truth. I want to float. But the current here is slow and stubborn. and encouragement can feel like a mirror reflecting my own tiredness back at me in a kinder light. I am grateful. but gratefulness does not translate into energy.
There are hours when the world softens. a cat weaving between my legs. a sunbeam landing perfectly across a table. a stranger's small kindness. In those moments the glass becomes clearer. I remember that there is beauty even in weariness. that the soul still notices color. But the reprieve is short. The bills return. The body reasserts its limits. The traps reset. The cycle continues.
Sometimes I imagine an exit that is not an ending. I picture building a door in the glass. small at first. then larger. Maybe it opens with one honest conversation. or a brief time when pain eases enough to make a plan. or a hand that reaches through and lifts with no questions asked. I imagine a place where work is suited to what remains of my energy. where I am paid fairly for what I can give. I imagine the bars softened into railings. the prison into a room with a window that opens onto a wide. patient sky.
Until then. I learn small mercies. I break days into pieces I can manage. a single call. one easy task. a walk that ends at a bench rather than in accomplishment. I keep a list of things that once made me breathe easier. not as an obligation but as a map that might. if I follow it slowly. remind the soul that the world is not entirely hostile. I let the pain speak without pretending it does not matter. I say aloud. sometimes. that I am tired. so the sound of it does not live only in my head.
The truth is raw. I am worn. the body presses heavy. and money does not come when I need it. That is the present. But I carry a stubborn ember too. a memory of light that tells me the glass can be altered. I cannot burst free all at once. I begin with one small crack. one honest confession. one appointment kept. one kind thing given to myself. The cracks make room for air. They change the shape of the prison until it is no longer a cell. only a small room with a door.
On the worst days. I allow myself to sit with the sorrow and name it. On better days. I push the door a fraction farther open. Neither surrender nor triumph. simply a slow. steady tending. The soul inside waits. patient. resilient in ways the world rarely understands. It is tired. yes. It is bruised. But it keeps notice of color. of warmth. of small mercies. And sometimes. that rare. surprising sometimes. those things are enough to go on.
Pain becomes a background narrator. My back clenches after sitting too long. My knees complain on stairs. Headaches come uninvited. Sleep offers fragments not rest. Naps are currency I spend sparingly and regret. Food tastes like necessity rather than pleasure. I wish for energy like someone wishes for rain in a drought.
Money is a constant low-level panic. Bills arrive with polite certainty. A rent notice is an accusation. I calculate, re-calculate, postpone the phone call. I apply for gigs that vanish into silence. Friends suggest simple fixes. Their suggestions land like paper on stone. I try to explain and my words feel clumsy. Sometimes pride keeps me from asking for help. Sometimes shame does.
Social life narrows. Invitations arrive like lit windows I cannot enter. I make excuses that sound reasonable. On the inside I am rehearsing reasons not to go. Conversations drain me. Small talk is a distance I cannot bridge. Loneliness is not absence. It is the presence of everyone shifting away.
