Nothing

Sitting, legs curled beneath me on the slightly broken vintage wooden chair, eyes glazed over and fingers frozen in place above the keyboard.

"What are you doing," he asks, from his spot on the bed.

I pause. I swallow.

"Nothing," I respond, "Nothing."

~~

Excerpt, The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus:

"In certain situations, replying "nothing" when asked what one is thinking about may be pretense in a man....But if that reply is sincere, if it symbolizes that odd state of soul in which the void becomes eloquent, in which the chain of daily gestures is broken, in which the heart vainly seeks the link that will connect it again, then it is as it were the first sign of absurdity."

Time is Fleeting...

If I can't even find time to post, how will I find time to revolutionize my life and drag myself out of coffee-overloaded, carpal tunnel inducing, soul draining cubicle drudgery?

What the hell am I supposed to do?