For a while, everything felt repetitive.

I'm not quite sure when that was brought to my attention. Wether I've always known that it was all building up towards this. This disinterest in every little thing that once left me fascinated for hours. Or wether it just, sort of…happened.

One day it was just the same quiet whistling of air seeping through my window.

The same dim blue light that my eyes have no problem adjusting to anymore, even in the earliest hours.

The same specks of golden dust that hover above me as I lie on my bed, by the window every afternoon after school.

The same faces I've tried to decipher.

The same voices I used to relish.

The same words that kept my thoughts racing.

For a while. It all seemed to be lost. Gone. Nothing.

But here I am. Still recognizing the value of all those small things I thought have been recklessly rid of all meaning. And that was the moment I realized nothing lost meaning. In fact, I had nothing to hold on to but those little things. I became dependent on their presence. A morning too bright would push me off the norm scale. A voice unfamiliar would make me ache for familiarity. A touch out of place. A word too vague. A room too small.

You're staring at a key that is lying in the middle of a room. Within those 4 walls and door, are your worst nightmares. You scream. You pound at the walls. But there's nothing. It's always nothing. You know there's a possibility that that abandoned key might fit in the lock. You know there's a possibility of escaping that room. Wherever that door may lead, you just k n o w it would be better than living your worst nightmare.

Yet day by day, you sit in the same corner, staring at those four walls, screaming till your voice is hoarse and your heart weak. And every goddamn day you'd think "What if…What if…What if…" despite the fact that it's eating you from the inside out, there's this inexplicable sense of security about it. A sense of safety in that corner.

That is what not trying feels like.