Ironic Shit

I'm in my room, in front of this computer. I am almost sense-less. I only hear my electric fan fuming some air from outside and a tiny bit of chirping from the duhat trees outside my window. I feel sense-less, not numb. Understimulated. Unoccupied. Alone. Undistracted.

Why do I feel it now? Because I'm unbusy. It's a start of a 3-day weekend from all the shit at work. But this is also shit. So, do I on a normal basis, during workdays, or previously, schooldays, just pile new shit over the constant shit in my life?

The shit at work, I can say, is short-term. I know it's gonna end in some way or another. I can't say the same for this constant shit, that drills through my brain when I'm unpreoccupied, unbusy, alone.

The world is beautiful. No doubt about it. But when I'm alone, I can't help but consider it to be also cruel. Cruelly silent. Cruelly unhelpful. Cruelly making it seem ironic or unjustified or irrational for me to feel shitty sick.