The days blur—
not fast,
not slow—
just the same.
A looped whisper
on a scratched-out record.

I wake
because I have to,
not because I want to.
The ceiling greets me
like a sentence already served
without a crime.

The walls don’t close in—
they just stay still.
No threat,
no comfort.
Just there,
like me.

Dreams feel like rumors
from a past life,
heard through a wall
too thick to break
but too thin to forget.

I try to move,
but the weight isn’t in my legs—
it’s in the air,
in the quiet way nothing changes,
no matter how loud
I think.

Hope flickers,
sometimes—
not like a light,
but like something
caught under ice.
Visible.
Unreachable.

I’m not falling.
I’m not flying.
I’m just…
still.
And somehow,
that’s worse.