yawn

My favourite season is just around the corner and I really don't care.
I'm terrified to write that because I fear being taken seriously and having privileges revoked, as if God would throw off the seasons just for the sake of slapping me in the head to remind me Who's in charge.
I don't care anymore. I have no desire for anything. I will probably go down South to visit one family or the other, maybe both. I'm supposed to love road trips and Shoney's and weird little convenience stores off otherwise-deserted West Virginia exits at 3 a.m. and down-home drawls and reunion and firearms and four-wheeling and general depressurisation. Yawn.
I don't want to be reminded of how out of reach the life I wanted is. I never knew I wanted it until it was already too late. It's still my fault, because I was warned and I didn't listen. Every time I go there I can watch others reveling in it, bathed in possibilities and options and boundless optimism. Every year I see how far they've climbed and they know at a glance how far I've fallen. I am so insubstantial compared to them that I am surprised they can even see me or hear my voice when I speak.
I had dreams and desires and vision once. I had a heart once. Yawn.
I should be alive, reveling in possibility, exploring new corners of some huge good thing I was made to be and do. I don't. I ship denture adhesive to Kansas and collect old Romanian bayonets that attach to rifles I'm not allowed to own and pack gear for hikes I never take and my house gets messier every day and when I think about cleaning it's already nine-thirty on a Sunday night. I try to hold my own in a crowd of people I dearly love and get squeezed into the margins because I'm no good at interrupting or speaking with force and clarity. I hear or read others' words and pain and struggles and the things they describe are exactly what I know and feel, and the connection should be wonderful but it's hollow and empty and who cares? I share what little I know of life, as an act of faith that it matters and will be received, but in that act I am constantly exposed as weaker and more naive than anyone around. I don't think I am really in the room when I'm in the room. If this is all I bring to life, that's probably for the best.
It may be that no one intends stratification with me at the bottom, but that doesn't mean it doesn't happen. What else should I expect?
I don't want to not care. I want to once again desire to live and enjoy and affect for good. I don't want to waste a second of this summer, or any other second. But what if everything I bring, everything that's within my reach, everything that makes me come as nearly "alive" as I ever get, is itself a waste?
I wish I was them. Anyone or anything but this. I wish I could stand among them and know I mattered like they do. I need to be punished. I dread it, but know how to expect nothing else. I am a very bad thing. Yawn.