I don't want to

here's the thing.
I don't want to write.
and it's not as if the crowd of thousands who read this will be devastated if I don't.
but the issue is this: I made a commitment to do this as practice, as training, as a discipline. it is a form of consistent effort that will result in an improved me; therefore my decision to write or not to write has ramifications on my overall sense of who I am.
I felt guilty enough about the break I took last fall, and my decision to cut back from everyday posting to only odd-day posting.
but right now I'm finding it difficult to write here even every other day. I don't want to.

this is closely related to my "I don't want to think" attitude.

besides, this is supposedly a web-log about cycling (which is often a stretch, I know) and not much of what I am writing lately is connected, even loosely, to riding a bike.
I could tell you about getting my new seat post for spin class (so that I can use my own saddle) and having to track down the little connector part (that would be an SR4500 from QBP, page 729 in the catalog) that allowed me to fasten part A to part B.
I could tell you about so-called Recovery Days that work my legs so hard they want to never bike again.
I could tell you about my first visit to the weight room after a 2-week absence, and how weights only seem to grow heavier when you're away.
but I don't really want to write about any of that.
I barely want to talk about anything.
I feel I've slipped down into that well and that I may never climb back out to see sunshine and smooth, dark asphalt ever again.

I drag myself here to the computer, and sign on with great reluctance. I click on the New Post icon, and I force myself to start typing.
I don't want to do it.
but I fear that if I don't keep plodding along, I will stop plodding at all. I will be overcome with inertia and will sway with the wind, falling sideways to the ground. I will not get up. lichen will take over, my northern side will become fuzzy and green, and soon I will be nothing more than a slight bump in the path.

so today I plod. I type, I throw words out there and try to organize them into coherent sentences that don't sound too full of self-pity as to be nauseating. I try to avoid maudlin, morose, and melodramatic.
but reality is that I hurt, and a nineteen-year-long portion of my life has now been swallowed up by a black hole, folded neatly and placed in a velvet drawstring bag.
I don't want to type,
I don't want to write,
I don't want to think,
I don't want to feel.

here's how you know (and thus, I, as well, must know) that I am still me:
my ending thought is this: thank God there's a chocolate cake in my fridge.