I always seem to be awash in tiredness.
The answers never seem to be in the right places, and even if they are, they always somehow are the wrong answers, the ones you did not necessarily want to hear at all. The answer to my tiredness? I don’t think it has one… it just is – like many things.
Of course I can corrrelate it: my anxiety, depression, some underlying hideous disease…
It does no use though, in this case applying names and reasons to things, doesn’t help at all. Still, I sit through day after day, feeling worn out, drained. Some days I manage to retain my creative energy (yesterday wasn’t one of those days,) and on these days I write and I write, hoping for something good, something better than the last time. Because this is ultimately what make the bad days bearable – knowing that a good day might be just a few hours away.
I do sleep.
Yet each morning I awake like a zombie, unprepared, ill-fitting in today’s world.