I feel…apathetic.

And that’s so much worse than being happy, or content, or even sad. At least when I feel those things I have something to hold on to, something real to grip and feel and examine.

But this…this is nothing. I feel everything slipping away and I can hardly bring myself to care, save those few moments of clarity when panic takes over and I can barely breathe.

All I want is control. I want routine.

I want to own my own house. Maybe and apartment. Maybe a houseboat. When I was a baby I slept best when floating around in a  little boat in my grandma’s pool.

I want to have a job, and I want to pay bills. I want to make a grocery list every week and then go buy those things when I need them with my own money.

I want a paycheck and a mortgage and a welcome mat.

But I have none of those things, just a bedroom and a $10 a week job teaching my cousin to play the piano.

I should be happy. There is nothing wrong with my life. It’s good, all of it.

But I’m indifferent.