The alarm goes off at five, or six, in the morning. Ringing relentlessly until your careless fingers click its button into place – mute. Your eyes open and adjusts its sight for the blue-toned darkness. Listening to your shallow breathing, you register your body. Heavy, soft and sinking into the bed. Warm under covers. A sigh slips from your lips. Gently, you get your spine to fall into the upright position, place your feet on the cold tiled floor and turn the fluorescent light on. Trick the body to being ready; you have to be ready for the day when everything is cast in light.
Every motion, every thought and every view that passes by slow. The world is out of focus, and every agenda of the day vague.
Going through the motions, only.
I would tell myself, maybe this is what you would call tiredness. Overstretched and overwhelmed. Barely functioning.
Is it, though?
And if it is indeed tiredness, what sort of tiredness?
Personally, it isn’t something that I can sleep away. It isn’t something that a leisure trip overseas, a staycation or a retreat is going to solve. It isn’t something that pills will take away.
I think my tiredness is borne out of loss. Loss of the familiar. Loss of certainties in life. Loss of a fighting spirit. Loss of myself, even.
Then is it still called tiredness? Or is it just my excuse to diminish this loss to my spirit? Naming it less than what it really is, to trick my being into thinking it will go away one day.