Tired

I’ve been really tired recently.

No, wait.  “Tired” isn’t quite the right word.  Granted, if I take out my contacts, go horizontal and close my eyes, I’ll sleep.  But “tired” doesn’t really cover it.

Neither does “exhausted”; in my mind, at least, exhaustion requires some sort of effort, be it physical, mental, or temporal (sleep-dep the usual cause in my particular case).  So I’m not exhausted, either.

I think the word I’m looking for is weary.  Yeah, that’s close enough.  I’m weary.  I’m not sure exactly what I’m weary of (since the weary function requires an argument).  “Weary of life” sounds too . . . hm.  “Contrived” doesn’t really work.  Ah, I’ve got it.  “Weary of life” sounds too Emo.  “Weary of existence” even moreso; I’d have to lose about 150 pounds and start wearing all black to use that phrase in a serious context.

I think I’m getting burned out on the whole “stay up all night, sleep all day” thing.  I’ve been doing that dance for about 3 years now (this time; the running total is about 6 years of the last eight), and it’s really starting to wear on me.  I’m a little concerned that this time a vacation won’t cut it, and I really don’t want to change jobs or careers again right now.  And since I don’t really chat with people in, for example, London, Dublin, Edinburgh, Lisbon, Casablanca, Paris, Berlin, Madrid, Vienna, Rome, or Geneva (to name a few cities in GMT+0 and GMT+1), I don’t even have a “tribe” that I can identify with, much less claim membership in (see Cory Doctorow’s book Eastern Standard Tribe if you want to try to understand that geek-laden reference).

And to make matters worse, for an unexplainable reason, I now have an inner compulsion to make this more than just my usual rantings.  The only trouble is, I can’t think of a way to expand this much more than I have without pushing my (now) limited literary skills past their limits.  I haven’t really exercised those muscles in about 5 years (i.e., right before I dropped out of college), and I think that if I tried now I’d just end up hurting myself.  A metaphorical tear in my literary ligament, so to speak (and with alliteration to boot).

Well, I guess I’ll leave this was it currently is, and see about writing a part two if this funk doesn’t lift.

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