x. inertia

my days are unsettled. i needed peace, solitude, slowness, after the whirlwind tour to visit family; but now i am nearly alone in my house and it is silent, cavernous, creaking with the cold. i feel the draft from my unprotected windows, carrying in swirls of frigid air that settle on my desk, on my floorboards. shards of ice crawl up the panes, onto the walls, into my feet and rigid fingers. i have a list of things to accomplish, two pages long, that flutters as i brush past it. i curl up and attempt to read. i know something is wrong when i am not interested in magazines, books, news items, words. i stare listlessly out the window, watching the sunshine's reflection on the snow. it beckons me with its falsehood, for not a shard of warmth exists in the golden light. i sip stale tea and wonder how long i can maintain this purposelessness; neither do i want responsibility to return. i cannot reach three-hundred words. my eyes are blank discs hiding dark matter with frozen synapses. i am inertia, becoming more entrenched in my seat and shuddering frame with each visible breath that crosses my chapped lips.