Paralysis.
I feel tired.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this kind of tired before with the way it seeps to the bones like the cold on a rainy, windy day. Except it is more than the bones within, it seeps into the mind and the soul, and all the essence of my being seems to be the tiredness that has calcified deep in the core of my person — a malignant tumor pulsating with the deep dark tar of exhaustion.
I am tired. I am tired of the daily comings and goings of the world that refuses to tire of its own awfulness, of its own injustices, of its own stink and filth that we are forced to stomach or relish in. Can I rest, oh dear please, let me rest? But how can I rest when I need to keep moving to survive? But please let me rest, let me rest, let me rest, it’s all that I’m asking for. But it’s all been rest, hasn’t it? How can I rest when rest is no longer restful?
My fingers shake as I inch them closer to the keyboard. My heart shudders and mind blanks at the thought of another day in monotony, another day aching for a catharsis that won’t come, another day in cold sweat dripping down my forehead, fingers perched freezing over the keyboard — edging ever closer, but never hitting a key.
I am a writer, I will write. I type down a sentence and return it blank — pristine, untouched, limitless, an empty canvas, endless, daunting, intimidating, impossible — the…
