I don't ever want a job

Wading through the sand,
each grain, I sift by hand,
while burning sun
and frigid wind
bear down upon
the battered soul within.

For lengthened hours,
and tortured, fruitless nights,
too I have wondered,
the difference
between wrongs and rights.

To want it
is to gorge myself.
To deny it
is to cry for help.
And yet I lie
in thickening abyss
a month gone by
what life is this?