just another sad love song

I sit on my futon and stare ahead at the wall and wonder what I should be doing.
I could be working. Or excercising. Or living.
And still I sit. Just like my mother. Stagnant, helpless.
I have appetite only for melancholy. I watch sad vampires and relate.
What is it in me that allows this? Why do I choose torment?
No one who sees me would say I am sad or depressed or melancholic, even.
Yet here, inside, I just want to feel sad.
Or maybe I just want to feel.
Do I hide from feeling by working or do I work because I have nothing to feel?
Why do I feel life hasn't begun yet?
Why do I love lone gunmen?
Why do I wait?