I’ve reached the fatigue stage. It’s unlike any fatigue I’ve felt. It is gray and heavy; implacable. It doesn’t explain itself. It sits on my eyelids like an argument that will never happen. It coils itself around my day and into the night hours I reserve for the best and funnest things, because night is my solace. It lurks between sips of my coffee and in the spaces of my brain that used to help me breathe.
Unaware weary in my younger years, I would discover my fuzziness as I tumbled down the stairs or rear ended a telephone pole. But years have leant me the knowing of my skin, the telling burn of my eyes, the odd hitch in my inhales, and I felt this weary slink into my every minute, slide its persistent claw across my palm.
I walked carefully, drove slowly. I let go the anger at things I couldn’t do.
But I am tired in my heart, and so my newfound forgiveness slides by too quickly, chased from my coping by the slate fog that moves as though fatigue has a deadline.
I’ve reached the fatigue stage, and even though I keep sleeping, it stays, belligerent and unafraid, on my eyelids.