I’m beginning to understand what people mean when they say the word “tired.” It’s not the let-me-lie-down-for-a-quick-nap tired; it’s not even the kind of coma-could-give-me-rest tired. It’s the kind of tired that makes mountains want to crumble into themselves. The kind of tired that makes men want to hang their heads for the rest of their lives. The rest of their lives. Rest of lives. Rest. Lives
Is rest crucial for living? Because I’m sure the people who say “I’m tired” hardly even know they’re alive, but they keep going. They keep trying.
I’ve become uncertain of moonshine because although it gives the illusion of light I can’t actually see where I’m going. I’ve even become uncertain even of myself these days. Some people call me “sunshine” and I don’t know if I should keep believing it because I don’t feel like I have any light to shine when I wake in the dark and question if I’ll beat the sun to its duty or if it’ll be on the frontline instead of me. I always hope I’m the last one chosen.
It takes eight minutes for light to reach the earth from the sun, that means that the sun could explode and in the eight minutes it takes for me to convince myself that they day is worth getting up for… by the time I plant my feet on the ground we’ll finally know it’s the end and I’ll wish it were the beginning and maybe it is, in worship I don’t understand or in hour glasses measured in light years of sand.
But where I would have stood, it’s over.
And I would never have to wake up again. That’s the kind of tired I’m starting to understand.