You're going to be fine. You feel like you're losing your mind. You lost your connection to God, the relationship that's always felt one-sided. You lost your job, your girlfriend, your grades, your hope. You don't believe your therapist anymore when she says you're going to be fine. You're going to be fine. You say "God dammit" softly to yourself when you get up from bed and your neck aches.
You take a walk. You don't feel fine. What the hell is wrong with everyone? There's nobody outside. You breathe mist and taste frost. You're bored and didn't bundle up enough. The feeling like you're finally not depressed and doing something is coupled with the remembrance you forgot glasses. Everything besides the sidewalk and the back of your bare hands is out of focus. The blurry colors make you happy. You see a bunch of kid-shapes lined up outside classrooms and feel their pain. You follow your bliss and walk five blocks down the neighborhood and see no signs of anyone being alive besides a couple houses with Christmas lights still up in January.
The wind's sting against your slightly bearded face is excruciating. You think about praying and it's been a while since the last time. You cried and sang and yelled and then... nothing. Cold, cold nothing. Blankets on blankets helped the cold, but out here, in the Havisham ghost town suburbia, it's excruciating. You calculate the time it takes to get back home and shudder cold shoulders the entire way.
You get home and masturbate. The friction warms up your entire body. God's silent but you joke to yourself about His watching. You think about printing off a few resume copies to deliver to any business that'll take 'em, but remember you've been working your way through the Walking Dead and it's gotten good in its third season. You get back in bed, watch ten episodes, get out of bed, into the kitchen to eat a meal of cereal and bread. You stand outside your body in that kitchen and look at your ridiculous biological form, the constrictions of a meat spaceship that time travels in only one direction to slow death. You think about how non-living atoms compose you and the stars and the pencil you're staring at on the table.
The things you'd write if you had the time, you think out loud to no one in particular.