“I cannot do this.” I whisper it from where I stand. I say it because it makes the most sense in my head. What else am I to say? The world has beaten me. The day is beautiful and I don’t care. People are talking to me and I cannot hear them, and when I realize how apathetic I am I can only conjure up a weird, impassioned hate of self. “I cannot do this.” I say it again, louder again this time. I sit alone in a public place, people are going to think I’m crazy. Much like the sun doesn’t make my skin feel heat, the judgement of others does not permeate my being. Because the response to the sentiment that is chanting so achingly inside of me is that I can do it. Why shouldn’t I be able to? Was it because I couldn’t sleep last night? Was it because I cannot fathom how I am going to finish all the things I need to do? Is it because I am just now realizing what a failure I am? Is it because he ignores me now? The answer, obviously, is all of the above and more. But that is not enough. “I cannot do this.” I repeat, quieter, eliciting no looks from strangers this time. I say it because I cannot lie to anyone but myself and sometimes acute desperation is productive. And because I can.