Have you ever been truly tired? I’m not talking about the little tug at your eyelids after a big meal, or that little tickle at the corner of your eye when it’s ten-past-five and you’re slumped on the couch. No, not the kind of tired that accompanies you at bed time or after you’ve downed a couple of Xanax, and not the kind of tired you get after a hard day’s work or a hard day’s workout.
Nah, this kind of tired is chronic. It’s the kind that starts off as a dull ache in your legs and a gentle gnawing on your bones. It’s the kind that pushes static under your skin and static into your ears; the kind where your neck gets stiff and your mouth gets dry, and you think you’re going to die. No, hope. You hope, because everytime you lay down it just gets worse. Heaven won’t be sending a messenger with peace, but Hell will be sending a devil with a poker – and you know it, you just know, because your skin is starting to burn and your nails are starting to itch.
Yeah. That kind of tired. The kind where you have to keep going even though your limbs are fighting you; the kind that seeps into your fingers and makes your knuckles stiff; the kind that bubbles in your joints and curls around your throat. The kind that makes you consider what if? What if I just took a nap right here, right in the middle of the road. It’s cold, but it won’t be for too long.
It’s the kind of tired that makes your elbows tingle and your ankles groan and click; it’s the kind of tired where you take a breath and the world slows down. That kind of tired that puts everything into reverse and you see all the parts as they move, and all the little cogs we call people, but you just want to be a stationary wheel in this infinite machine of life.
Yeah. I’m that kind of tired.
But soon, I won’t be. The man on a pale horse is riding into town – except he’s actually just a doctor with a flag of white riding on his shoulders, and he’s got the cure for my sickness – an aid, a little prick of pain before the peace.
It’ll all be over soon, he says.
And I look up at the ceiling and I feel the struggle grip my throat and reach down my lungs and tug at the soft, supple sinew and I hope – I pray to every god and demon that crosses my mind – that today is the day. The day where I can finally close my eyes and just…