To The Very Marrow Of My Bones

How would he articulate this sense of detachment-to his body, his emotions, to everything? It's akin to puppeteering tangled strings, a complexity too convoluted for a world that demands a single-word answer: 'fine.'

So he diligently completes his assignments, pores over the prescribed readings, studies for upcoming tests, mechanically consumes dinner, and finally retreats to his bed. There, he stares at the ceiling until sleep mercifully claims him, feeling the furthest thing from fine.