A Mere Imposition

Exhaustion.

It bleeds through every pore until it consumes me.

Pilfering my energy, it leaves me almost motionless.

I crave the stillness of the quiet and a nice, warm bed.

Even my thoughts are stale.

The old habit of playing broken pieces of conversations on an endless loop.

Failing to connect neurons, I abandon the task for easier things.

Giving myself permission to lean into the solitude I crave so much.

Those antiquated ideals of my parents.

Hard work is a virtue, 9 to 5 is the standard, you’re lazy if you can’t cut it.

The mantra hammered into my head to give me an endless supply of guilt.

Just enough to question myself when my body stops working and I give in.

To the origin of all my fears, the motivations for all my afflictions.

I need to tread lightly while I’m susceptible to faulty perceptions.

There’s little room for logic when exhaustion carries the narrative.

And if you’re not in my head, you might not understand me.

That fucking exhaustion.

Stealing my days and robbing me of my nights, leaving me empty and defenseless.

Mercilessly taunting me with an unpredictable and inconspicuous condition.

One that evades explanation just enough to put me in to question.

And I get questioned a lot.