hebetude
noun
**************************************
Steve was tired. He was tired all the way to his bones, and then even deeper. His soul was tired. Everything about his reeked of the purest lethargy one could imagine. So bad was it, that his body simply refused to move. He could not even muster the will to think about anything more complex than “I’m tired.”
Something deep down in the back of his mind said this was wrong. He should not be so tired. So unwilling to take action. He had slept well, and had not done anything that would result in such potent exhaustion. This tiny bit of his mind was drowned out by the slow, plodding, dull thoughts that occupied the rest of his mind.
His head lolled to one side, brining his girlfriend, Julie, into view. She was occupying prime couch real estate, and seemed just as lazy as he was. Her eyes slowly found his. Neither acknowledged the other’s presence beyond a mere acceptance of the fact that they were there. Steve simply could not muster up enough energy to do anything like caring about her presence.
That small part of his mind knew this was wrong. Julie was energetic and lively. Others thought she had somehow managed to retain the energy of childhood well into her adult years. If there was no reason for him to feel like he did, there was really no reason for her to be so worn. So unwilling to take even the simplest of actions. Again, that small voice was muffled by the glacial pace of the rest of his mind.
A soft padding reached his ears. It came closer, until he felt the weight of a small animal. It pawed and circled his chest and lap. His cat, Buster, was his normal feline self at least. That is to say, as lazy as any other cat. The bundle of fur eventually found a spot he liked, curled up, and went to sleep. At least this was normal. Steve knew he should do something. If his lap was occupied by a cat, he knew he had to pet said feline. It was practically a law. But, again, his complete lack of energy, will, and thought kept his hands limply at his side.
Another sound drifted towards him. A much more alarming sound. Something was breaking, and the door was opening. He should do something. He should move and check it out. He was vaguely aware of Julie stirring just slightly, apparently thinking the same thing. But neither of them actually followed through on their shared thought. They simply could not be bothered.
He heard voices behind him. Unfamiliar voices. Harsh, grating voices. There were talking. His mind churned trying to remember words. It sounded like they were talking about a gas of some kind? A drug? Maybe he would care later. Maybe he would be able to muster up the energy to do something. That little voice was trying to scream at him to get up. That he was being robbed, or worse. That this entire situation was wrong, and that he needed to do something to make it right.
But he could not. Would not. With a monumental effort, Steve moved for the first time in what felt like hours, ever since his head moved seeming on its own. This movement took the form a long, slow yawn. Whoever was in his home did not seem to care about this achievement. Neither did Steve, really. He closed his eyes and followed Buster’s example. He would care about whatever was happening later.
***********************************************
Is it bad that I feel this way more than I care to admit? I mean, not to the level of true drug induced stupor, but just a lack of desire to do much of anything. It's probably bad, right? It sounds bad now that I write it out like this. I should probably talk to someone about it, right? Meh, maybe later.
No comments:
Post a Comment