Conviction is a luxury...

I caught a really bad sad at some point last night and I was hoping I could sleep it off but it doesn’t seem to be going away.
You know it’s bad when you can’t make it home and just stay in your studio overnight because you just can’t.

And I don’t have an explanation. I don’t.
There’s a hollow sound of comfort in the back of my head reminding me people care, because so many people tried [multiple times] to check up on me last night to make sure I was okay, but it’s not about that, it’s not about them. It’s not about anything.
It’s like a heavy fog rolled in and seeped into every joint, every crook and crevice and I feel it, thick and heavy every time I move, every time I breathe, every time I try to talk to anyone, every time I try to get anything done. It wants to kill me. Not because I want to kill myself, not because I want myself to die, but there is death and injury pervading my thoughts in ways it hasn’t done in almost a year and I can’t make it stop. It’s like having someone in your head that won’t stop talking and showing you pictures and has their hands tight on your shoulders every time you try to turn to walk away.
I need to get stuff done. I am so very behind on my work at this point so I suppose it’s just as well that I want to be a hermit and not deal with people, but there’s also work I’m supposed to get done that specifically deals with people, like E-mailing someone back (now I’m wishing I never wrote him in the first place and reminded why I dislike him so much in the first place—because he hasn’t changed) and making a poster and post to put up to help look for a friend who’s gone missing, and welding something (that I need help doing from a friend more proficient in welding than me) and collecting all the syllabi and writing the woman from UGA back.

I just want to stop. I want everything to stop and I want to stop breathing because every time I inhale it’s like a dead-weight.

I just can’t.