The Starving Writer Blog

I am tired. There’s no getting around that, and there’s no sugar coating it. My lethargy, my drowsiness is a fact, a constant companion, and it is beginning to get in the way. I would like to be doing something. Anything. But even the thought of activity makes my eyelids heavy, and my thoughts begin to drift. Bits and pieces of dreams begin to insinuate themselves within my consciousness, if it can truly be called consciousness in this state, and that complicates hings further.

I should get in my car and drive far far away, putting as much distance between me and my fatigue as I can, but such a thing is not possible within this realm. Such is the stuff of dreams, and — there is that problem once again. Dreams. I am trying to stay away from dreams, and will likely keep up the fight for the remainder of my waking hours today until, at long last, I fall into bed and find that I cannot sleep.

Life is, sometimes, a cruel irony. That thing which you want the most can be the thing which is least attainable. Thirst in the middle of the ocean. Rational political dialog. I could go on, but I can’t think at the moment. It is all I can do to direct energy to my fingertips to force them to record my thoughts, and I do not know to what end. If it all comes crashing down tomorrow, what will they say of me? I can’t know, but the good news is that I will not care, so this is not something I need to dwell on.

If I were capable of dwelling, of course, and I am not. I am far too tired to stick to any one subject for more than a few seconds, far too tired to put together a coherent sentence. All the songs that run through my head are tired songs, lullabies. Elevator music. Is this a conspiracy? It might as well be. And yet I know that if I get up from my desk and walk down the hall to my bedroom, there will be a phone call no more than ten minutes after I lie down. This is the way it is. The outside world seems to have a line on my sleeping and/or napping schedule, and they act in concert to thwart my desires. Damn them!

As I said, life can be a cruel irony, but I wonder: are there any kind ironies? If there were, would they be the kind of thing we would talk about? I suspect that they would, if only because they serve as a counterpoint to the cruel variety. Yin and yang. Wet and dry. Electrons and protons. Everything seems to have an opposite, which leads me to wonder whether there is a “me” out there who is, at the moment, wide awake. I suppose that there is, and I wonder if he would be interested in trading places, just for the day. I would make an effort to find out, but not today. I’m just too tired.