The Inexorable Lassitude of the Ontological E

It is not the mere myofascial fatigue,
The heavy sinew, nor the lactic acid’s sting,
That besets the spirit in this stygian twilight,
Nor the simple exhaustion that a nocturnal respite might mend.
Do not mistake this for the lethargy of the flesh,
A transient depletion of the corporeal vessel
That might be satiated by the rhythmic tides of Somnus,
Or the brief, restorative oblivion of a restorative slumber.
No, this is an acedia of a more profound and ancient vintage,
A weltschmerz that permeates the very quiddity of being,
An ontological attrition that no pillow can cushion,
Nor any silken shroud of dreams ever mitigate.
It is the inanition of the soul, a starvation of the psyche,
Born not of physical exertion, but of the crushing weight of existence,
The relentless erosion caused by the abrasive currents of time,
And the inexorable accumulation of unuttered griefs.
When the sun descends into its sepulchral horizon,
And the shadows stretch their tenebrous fingers across the floor,
The weary traveler seeks the sanctuary of repose,
Hoping to find surcease in the hypnagogic realm.
Yet, the slumber is but a hollow mimicry of peace;
The mind remains an itinerant wanderer in a labyrinth of shadows,
Haunted by the specters of what was, and the dread of what shall be,
Trapped in a state of perpetual, waking desuetude.
The fatigue is a slow ossification of the interior landscape,
A calcification of the once-vibrant currents of affect,
Where the colors of the world bleed into a monochromatic grey,
And the once-resonant melodies of life become a dull susurrus.