The yellow banter of overhead fluorescents with forceful impel seizes my bobbing head. It’s nothing but the heavy flood of monotony and grey words that are simply existing without importance. The cold consumption of January is a concept that accompanies the repetitiveness of whatever day it is because at this point, I have no idea, and I’m not sure when the heave will lighten.

The five days feel to me as one, and the other two are spent the same: anticipating the loss I am at while I sit, then walk for five minutes, then sit, then walk for two. 

The green on the chairs I sit in makes me seasick, and I have not felt right since the day, one-hundred and some days ago—a late August day. The imperfections of a personal impediment rest rampant and laugh childishly as the hours, the days, the weeks, the months run without realization. I lack the sense of registering anything that happens for long periods of time because to me, it’s simply as is. 

I inhibit myself and then get lost in the weeds overgrown in an uncanny valley. The green of the weeds, fortunately, doesn’t make me uneasy. I am no longer in the presence of artificial lighting, artificial humans, and artificial rooms that are painted the dirty white of discomposure. 

When we sit in the same setting next to the same people, surrounded by the same slump and the same stress, it’s easy to slip into this unearthly reality. The same cycle of learning and homework, just to regurgitate it all three weeks later, is exhausting.

I am truly exhausted. 

The days are supposedly getting longer, even though I still have no idea how that can work. The sun is hidden behind the clouds—shy, it is at this time of year—and the snow is in the ugly half-there, half-melted stage. 

When I wake up, it is dark. When I go to school, it is dark. When I get out of school, the sun is finally high enough to peak out, but it will soon run away eastbound. By the time I go to bed, it will be dark once again. 

I listen to the same Frank Ocean songs from the same playlist that I have been making since the eighth grade. I wear the same sweatshirts paired with the same cut-up, rolled-up, tied, and pinned-up denim every day. Occasionally, I’ll wear some sweatpants or my pink Christmas cat pants that are a true specialty. 

It is the same exact “routine,” the same exact people, the same exact game, the same exact broken computer, and the same exact everything for the next two months. There is no function that I am necessarily looking forward to, nor is there a real specific day that I am exhilarated to occur. 

My mind has sort of shifted. The fog at the beginning of the grudge is here, and it has been since the last. It never went away, but it should. 

Well, I guess it never truly goes away, does it?