The inklings of an ending

Watching reruns old sitcoms on languid Friday afternoons,sprawled out with a glass of coca-cola,
my idea of freezing time.Like savouring comfort food.
It hits me hard that a few months down the line,I'll never be able to come back from school and wile away time watch television will never be possible again,and the knowledge hurts.
I stare at dappled sunlight on my ceiling on Saturday mornings,contemplating life in blank verse-
I stare at the sunlight long enough for it to look like the roof is growing wings,I never did enjoy magic realism too much.The point of living seems to be a non-existent dot.A period at the end of a sentence.
Propped up against the cold tile wall,swabbing a wound with a cottonball of Dettol,I hear the sounds announcing the arrival of night,as I think to myself "Is this all?"
And then,as if on second thought,I steal away an old,empty bottle of Musk scented Old Spice."Smell like a man" it reads..The bathroom sure smells like a macho man,then.
Again,I stare at the ceiling till it resembles one of a high-rise one with Fresco paintings,a museum's.
If I could close my eyes and transmograte,I don't know where I would go.All the hours seem just as hollow,the promising possibilities just as distant and lackluster.
I'm a giver-upper,I lose faith faster than the blink of an eye-lid,Don't take me too seriously,
Dear Life.