dicks dicks dicks

There’s this heavy, sinking stone of despair lodged deep inside my chest, making every step feel like I’m wading through thick, suffocating quicksand. Im just in an exhausting state of flux and uncertainty, and my brain feels completely maxed out—utterly at capacity and overloaded…. but I pretend not to be. Maybe I reverted back to a semi-robot mode? I have a million things waiting for me, lined up like a restless queue, and I can see them crystal clear through the fogged-up window of my eyes—the fun stuff, the small joys, the things that usually spark that bright flame inside me. But actually doing anything? It’s like trying to pull teeth, like my limbs themselves have forgotten their purpose and are refusing to obey my commands. WTF is wrong with me?! The honest answer? Nothing, really. I’m not broken. This is just one of those brutally difficult seasons people go through, where motivation disappears without warning, and frustration bubbles up so thick and heavy you want to scream into the void. It’s hard, really hard—but also painfully normal. Still, the worst damn part? The not-doing-anything part, the heavy, paralyzing inertia that drags you down. That’s the part that hurts the most. It’s Marjor Dicks.