The morning after

The morning after

I traverse days that dissolve into one another.

I awaken unchanged, unmoved, unaltered.

Yesterday persists within me, and I carry it into what is meant to be new.

I convince myself that a shift is imminent,

that something within me will recalibrate,

that I will rise unburdened, or at least less so.

Yet each morning arrives with the same indifference.

The same atmosphere, the same intrusive thoughts, the same quiet gravity.

Nothing unfamiliar reaches me.

I attempt to abandon what weighs on me,

but it adheres without resistance.

I attempt to reconstruct myself,

yet I remain fixed in the same internal state.

Time advances, but it does not transform me.

Days accumulate, yet they do not relieve me of what I carry.

They merely compound it.

So I relinquish the expectation of better days.

Not out of acceptance,

but out of the repeated failure of their arrival.

By rose