you sit down at your desk. headphones in, windows open, monitor just set up. the whole day is free, and there's nothing at all you'd like to do. you don't even try to come up with something, are just immediately reduced to roaming the streets, hoping the music hits you in just the right way.
you sit down next to someone you adore. but you can't think of a single thing to say. not a sudden, momentary blankness but a genuine lacking. not an inability to speak, but a firm conclusion that none of it seems worthwhile. you think about it later, and can't think of anything you'd like to talk about with anyone. somehow, you keep sitting at tables with people anyways.
you sit in your room again, wondering why. thinking of how we are all built up brick by brick from our memories, red towers of thoughts and feelings. wondering where all the bricks went.
you know this is the sort of thing you can't think about, the sort that means everything has no substance, unravels on direct observation, that you just have to trust is there and act. but sometimes it seems that there's nothing at all inside you, and if you only knew where the insides all came from, you might be able to find it all again.