Nothing.

This is how I feel summed up in 182 words.
I can’t begin to explain the high level of anxiety that comes with doing nothing.
The pacing, the thinking, the lack of creativity flowing.
The need to interact with others is simply useless right now.
I know I can’t. I’ll try anyways.
I wish I had hundreds of sleeping pills so I could sleep hundreds of hours
And then wake up to…
Who knows.
Maybe I’ll just sleep.
And dream.
Dream about doing something
Something that’s not going to drive me insane
Because reality has possibly reached that point about now
Yes, yes, yes. Confinement tugs the ropes of human lust.
To create, to wonder, to create things to be wondered about.
When there is nothing to do but do nothing then doing nothing creates something.
I’m eating my weight in TV dinners and wasting my time on seconds.
I’m writing on walls.
I don’t pick up my phone.
Someone may be knocking at my door.
I don’t.
Care.
Get me out of here.