I can't help feeling exhausted. With everything.
Rather a dramatic word for lacking in sleep I know but although I am tired, I use the word in a different way. I feel worn and battered most of the time in myself and in the effort of daily life. This begins as a frustration, usually with my career choice and love life or lack there of, and departs leaving behind a great heaviness.
It's the insistence of stitching the frayed seam of a favourite dress, that should have been thrown out years ago, before you leave the house only for the strap to break a few hours later. A minor mishap but exhausting just the same. A waste of seconds however small.
This feeling isn't quite as constant and depressing as it sounds it can be quite dulled at times too. Yet it is clever. It tricks you by pretending it's disappeared, hiding behind laughter and teasing you with little hopes of the future.
Inevitably the future remains an unknown entity. When the hopes fail to materialise into something tangible, the exhaustion returns this time in an ache, that always resides in your muscles which feel heavy and overused. Something that is always strange when you haven't particularly overworked them with unusual exercise.
You feel ancient when only at the quarter of your century. Frustrated with this exhaustion, mentally slapping yourself in the face knowing how good you actually do have it and while you are bemoaning the demise of an insignificant H&M dress, the children working in the sweatshop that made it are struggling to stay alive each day.
You notice the sun setting and it's beautiful and you wonder why you feel so full of effort.
Conversation is a hurdle and even the plans you have dared to look forward to become a struggle in their execution. Cancellations are met with relief, because your gut instinct told you the original event would only have been arduous.
Surely the response to this exhaustion would be to just give up trying. Ignore any attempt to engineer, plan, create or fix. Allow the universe to decide what happens next and avoid any desire to manage it.
Why does that notion seem impossible? Probably because in the frustration of exhaustion there is still a small desire buried in the muscle ache. A minute fragment of hope that all the effort, sweat and tears that have past escaped, will one day amount to something that will be effortless.
A peaceful slumber that can envelop the exhaustion and reward it with a good nights rest. I guess that's why true dreams occur when we are asleep. No effort is required for them.
