Bored Depression

The record turned, the sound of white noise held my attention more than the music. I wanted to drown in it, like waves of the ocean. Suddenly it was too overwhelming, the music, the ocean of static, my restlessness. I turned it off, the record needle grinding to a halt, making the sounds slow and deep and distorted.

I stood at the window. It didn't matter that the sun was shining because it was cold. Going out meant wrapping up in layers. And what for? Couldn't garden. Couldn't take a walk. Nothing to see. Nothing new anyway.

There was a pile of clean laundry in a basket waiting to be folded. I didn't feel like doing that right now. The fun was gone, the contentment was gone, I felt gone. I was a shell of a person.

I collapsed on my couch. I stared at the bookshelf full of good reads. Books might make me sleepy, kill some time, transport me to another world for a while. But I didn't feel strong enough to read.

I hate this feeling. I hate who I am in these moments.