بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

So this is how it is, being immune to emotion or pain, like a zombie given life, limbs strong as paper mache. Can't quite tell the trigger or cause, perhaps a natural progression, can wish or want for nothing, as if all of my being is simply paused. death might be simpler or sweeter, but can't ask for it either, so forward is the march, of one sightless, mindless, heartless, one without an end or a start. energy seeping out of my veins and pores, breathing an effort, existing a chore, just trying to finish this sentence, can't really be sure, where is the rest of me, the best of me, to bring meaning to what it's all for?