Glass of Water

My glass of water sits just out of reach, mocking me from the table. And yet, I can’t bring myself to move toward it. I’d rather sit here, parched, than muster the energy to give my body the care it needs. It’s not just laziness—it’s something deeper, something darker. A grotesque apathy, a loathing that runs so deep it’s easier to let myself wither than to do the smallest thing to preserve myself.

The truth is, I’ve been running from that realization for a long time. I blame my body, my circumstances, the world around me. But the cracks I see in everything? They’re my cracks. The mess around me mirrors the mess inside of me—chaotic, broken, unfixable. And I’ve been complicit in it all.

I’ve poured myself into chasing dreams, chasing meaning, running on an endless hamster wheel that leaves me breathless but unmoved. And for what? To end up here, in a life that feels beaten and bruised, with fragments of myself too jagged to hold onto? I’ve become the architect of my own collapse, and now I’m trapped in the rubble of my choices, unable to see a way out.

Even my art feels tainted. These personal shots for the project I keep obsessing over—they feel hollow, like a desperate grasp for something to fill the void. It’s hard not to look at myself and see someone whose worth has dwindled into nothing more than a hollow vessel, someone who has given too much away and left nothing for themselves.

But maybe there’s something in admitting all of this, in staring at the mess head-on instead of looking away. Because if I can be honest about the wreckage, maybe I can start to rebuild. Maybe I can reach for that glass of water after all.

One small act of care, one small piece of love—for myself. Maybe that’s where it starts.