It is right there, outside the window, A slight breeze ruffles its yellow leaves; I should water it; I should pull up the weeds growing in clumps around it; I should care. I watered it for two years, Sleepless nights, hours of tears, It lived; It did not thrive, But not for lack of care. Some days I walk to the front window, I pull down the blinds and look at it. Some days I feel a stirring of concern; Some days I think about watering it; Some days I do. Today, like most days I only think of concern. I do not feel. I do not put on my shoes. I do not open the door. I do not even look out the window. That life I was building, That career, That body of work, That reason for being, Is not forgotten, It is withered. I have tried to define it. Malaise. Lethargy. Apathy. Depression. Laziness. Boredom. I have tried to give reasons. The wrong choice. Too hard. Too much criticism. Bad luck. I just wasn't good enough. It wasn't the right fit. I'm just in a bad spot. I'm just depressed. I just need to start moving. I just need to do SOMETHING. I worry that I cannot worry, that the tasks and stress I carried for so long now are absent. That drive and work ethic that found me waking at 4:30AM is long gone. I wake late and lay in bed with plans that fall short and plans that overwhelm. I try to care. I try to feel. I try to try. It feels like too much; I feel too little. Can one commit suicide through inaction? Can you just stop making choices? Can you just stop deciding? Can you just wither away like a plant unwatered? Can time speed on and wander away while I remain a part of the past?