Each week has grown more quiet. The days longer. More aimless.

I used to enjoy anticipating outings, holidays, dinner with family, a lone meal of crab legs, a good book, all sorts of things.

There is no anticipation anymore. I don’t look forward to anything at all. I exist. Going because I should. Doing because it’s habit.

I can’t think of one single thing I want. Or want to do. It’s a disturbing feeling.

It’s different from the pain that has been my constant companion for ten months. In some ways worse.