Empty

     There was a dull ache where his feelings should be. He didn't care. Well, that wasn't quite true. He still felt something akin to that, but his connection to it was shapeless and unspecific. Goals, planning, odd thoughts and concepts had vanished over two years ago into a empty silent static. There was no direction, no progress, no change - just a numbing sense of sameness. Still there were things he knew to be true, even if he couldn't picture them at the moment. It was like being stuck in an empty waiting room, without anything to accomplish other than passing the time. If writer's block had a giant, relentless older brother, this was it. The motivation to do anything was at a lousy five percent of what it should be. The body was trapped, but so was the mind.