Just another never

I don’t know what day it is.

I don’t know if it matters.

Everything feels like background noise—

and I’m just the filler.

I don’t remember yesterday.

But it’s still happening.

Over and over

like clocks forgot how to tick

without dragging me through it.

The sun rose—

I think.

But I never really saw it,

just that same tired light

leaking through the blinds

like a glitch in the matrix.

I blink.

A week disappears.

I dozed off,

it's months I can’t get back.

Every day feels like

a rerun I missed watching.

I breathe,

but I don’t feel air.

I move,

but I don’t go anywhere.

I'm awake,

but I’m not alive—

just logged in.

It’s just another never,

just another loop,

days stacked like review

in an endless YouTube.

Reality’s broken,

my mind’s on mute—

this ain’t life,

it’s just something I commute.

My reflection don’t know me—

just copies my shape.

I wave,

but it just stares back

like it’s waiting for me

To catch back up.

I tried to write a list,

but the ink faded

before I could cross anything off.

I think I showered.

I think I ate.

But maybe it was just a thought.

Close enough.

The days don’t end,

they dissolve.

Like sugar in water,

like purpose in repetition.

I lose myself

somewhere between

"good morning" and

"what’s the point?"

I was told once,

“get up, go outside, touch the grass.”

But what if the grass

don’t feel real either?

What if the world

is just an illusion

stitched together

by people who don’t feel lost?

It’s just another never,

just another frame,

reality’s a filter

and I don’t fit the game.

I’m lagging in my body,

can’t patch this pain—

just a user

waiting for the crash

screen again.

Lights on,

nobody home.

Feet on the floor,

soul unknown.

Notifications blink,

but I ghost them all—

'cause nothing hits right

when you don’t feel at all.

They ask,

“What’s wrong?”

Like I can explain

this constant hum

of existential rain.

I’m not sad,

I’m not fine—

I’m just offline

on the inside.

How do you wake up

when you never really sleep?

How do you live

when everything’s on repeat?

How do you dream

when your head feels like a loading

screen?

It’s just another never,

just another blur,

time slipped out the back

and didn’t leave a word.

Reality’s buffering,

I’m stuck in-between—

this ain’t living,

this is just…

A dream.

Still buffering…

Still here…

Still nothing…

Still unclear…

If this is life,

when does it begin?