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I’m tired.

I’m tired of being tired.

I’m tired. You’re tired. We’re tired.

Tired.
Tired. Tired.
Tired. Tired. Tired.
Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired.
Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired.

A girl with red hear lays face down in the grey dirt of a dried up lake, amongst mud cracks

Unsplash photo by Oscar Keys

I snap awake, even after 8, 9, 10 hours of sleep. It does not restore me. I spark awake, alert, worried, what the ***** just happened? Where is my partner? Where is my child? Where am I? But I am not restored. I am the waking dead.

I am tired of meetings. I have perfected that look at the screen like I am paying attention. Nodding, eyes ahead. Sometimes a gentle head tilt. But I’m looking at other screens. Facebook. Pinterest. My bitcoin values. Scrolling. Scrolling. Nodding. Sometimes grunting like I agree. My body is in your meeting, but my soul is floating.

Will there be a restful sleep? In a month? a year? I will not even use the word that rhymes with “formal” – BECAUSE IT DOES NOT EXIST. This is it. This, tired existence, is it.

And as much as I detest it, its the best we got. So I will catch a nap, a siesta, an attempt to slide my crumbled body inside a virtual battery charger. Waiting for a spark. A blip. A jolt.

I am tired.