Checked out
Some people are so checked out. They're not here. They've died but no one told the bodies to play dead. Gormless zombies pushing shopping carts around and around like a bad fun fair wultzer. It's not living and it's not surviving. There's no struggle there for it to be surviving. They just stopped asking questions, stopped asking for more. Instead they had their edges ground down and fell in the long line for conformity and normality. Maybe they never had the edges. Edges are a privilege, a human deformity. Embrace how fucked up and demanding you are. You won't change the world; it needs saving not changing at this point, but you might be able to have a blast by yourself on the way down. There's no question whether your body will carry on walking the earth when you're dead, you'll run that skin sack full of bones right into the ground and still be screaming for more