It’s a strange kind of tired.
It’s not the physical ache; of body, limb or muscle.
It’s the feeling of deadening weight that sits upon your heart.
And yet, that’s physical too, in a way.
For isn’t all pain in the mind? At least that’s what the Buddhists say of pain. Or was it the existentialists?
Either way, I am tired. Of so many things.
Of the need to juggle nicety and anger.
The need to be smiling when internally I am screaming.
I have to put an end to this. This cannot go on.
Tomorrow, the deed shall be done.
‘Honey, you haven’t touched your cereal. Is everything okay?’
‘Huh? Yeah, yeah. Just working on the plot line for the novel, babe. Think I’ve got it now.’
She smiled and he returned it.
Mentally, he was far, far away.
Day 36 of daily writing