I’m so tired. It feels like I’m dragging my soul behind me, shackled to my ankles. My soul wrinkled and deflated, drags behind my heels sluggishly. I try coffee, but my soul resists, still lax at my feet. My eyes wince from the glow of the computer screen, the brightness too much for my weakened state of being.

After hours of staring at the blank page. My withered soul continues to be too exhausted for creating. I retreat to the couch to stare blankly at the worlds created by others. My tired mind escapes into the imagination of other writers who accomplished things I am too sleepy to achieve. I would mourn the loss of a potentially productive day, but I’m far too tired to feel anyway but sleepy.

Tomorrow, tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I will attempt again. To be more alive than I was today. To do something more than myself. Tomorrow is another chance at creating.

Today, I rest.


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