I've grown tired of all the songs stuck in my head.
The sound of my grumbling stomach no longer echoes a familiar melody. Spots in my vision, or lack thereof, no longer comfort me with fantasies of fairies and magic. There was a time when I had hope.
Now, I wait.
All of my goodbyes have been said, though there was no one here to acknowledge them. I have apologized, thanked, prayed, hoped, cried, and let go. Do not mistake this for peace. I have simply accepted this solitude.
There is no time here. No feeling left in my feet or knees. No more sensation to inspire a stretch or a wiggle. Stillness. Constraint.
I have come to wonder when this will end. When I will end. If I knew how I got here. If I knew where I was, beyond the idea I've patched together between bouts of insanity, I might be capable of calculating the timeline.
Facts turn over in my brain, my senses zeroed in on every smell, every sound, but they only lead to hopelessness. I only pray this failing vessel falls fast so I may be set free from this involuntary solitude.