May 15, 2002 | 9:02 AM

Right now I�m in the �why bother� stage of existing.

Why bother to go to work?

Why bother to write my metaphysics paper?

Why bother to go swimming?

Why bother to clean my room?

Why bother to call anyone, plan a vacation, make dinner, finish reading Ha Jin�s Waiting, brush my hair, do my laundry, take back overdue videos to the video store, look for a new place to live, decide if I want to move out of the city, eat a healthy diet, or clean out the refrigerator?

Why fucking bother?

I do these things (some of them anyway) without gusto or intention, on autopilot, hoping that someday in the near future the pantomime in which I participate will be invigorated by the spark of true desire, that my day to day activities might be animated by a sense of purpose

It would be so easy, so painless right now to just fall out of this life. To stop showing up to the office every day. To skip my philosophy final and nonchalantly accept an F in the course. To let the lease run out and take whatever skeevy rent deal comes along. So easy. Too easy.

And anything I can bare to feel in this moment spills into a blur of disappointment and resentment and sadness too rich to eat. The despair on my plate grows cold, losing flavor as I push it around and around with my silver fork.

Once I loved and now love means death to me. Once I made plans and the plans were broken. Once I wore my heart on my sleeve and it stained my shirt in the wash.

Right now the only thing that brings me any semblance of happiness is holding you while you sleep, because in dreams I forget that things aren�t as they once were, and hope springs eternal from the soil of memory.