Life Fatigue
I wish I could say it was
lassitude,
indolence born of boredom, but
I cannot
confess to a lie; and it’s not
this novel
coronavirus pandemic with all the
social
distancing and self-isolation
that comes
with it that’s stolen my zest
for living,
writing included. I can’t
confess to that
either, because that would
also be a lie.
It’s something else, much
deeper than
I’m willing to confess to. But
I don’t
want to go there, because then
I would
have to sit down and write the
story I’ve
been putting off for fear of
getting it done,
and then what would I have to
do but
start another project and
repeat my life
over again. It’s no wonder Camus
imagined Sisyphus happy.
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