I am writing about being tired.
Not the poetic kind.
Actual tired.
The kind that sits in my shoulders at 2:17pm.
Not the poetic kind.
Not the kind that makes things feel meaningful.
The kind that sits in my shoulders at 2:17pm.
The kind that makes simple sentences feel long.
Actual tired.
I am tired of making decisions.
The kind that makes simple sentences feel long.
I am tired of emails that ask for my capacity.
I am tired of making decisions.
As if I can measure it.
I am tired of emails that ask for my capacity.
As if it’s something I can locate.
Not the kind that makes things feel meaningful.
I am tired of softening my voice.
As if it’s something I can locate.
I am tired of explaining myself twice.
I am tired of softening my voice.
This is not about rest.
I am tired of explaining myself twice.
This is about accumulation.
As if I can measure it.
Days stacked on days.
This is about accumulation.
Tasks added to tasks added to expectations.
Days stacked on days.
I am not burnt out.
Tasks added to tasks added to expectations.
I am not inspired either.
I am not burnt out.
I am just here.
I am not inspired either.
Needing less.
I am just here.
Being given more.
Needing less.
I am writing about being tired.
Being given more.
Not the poetic kind.
I am writing about being tired.
Actual tired.
Emilie Turner 