Exhausted

gif source

As I lay there sunken, in search of meaning, awaiting the inevitable, I receive a notification from my phone, a message from dear June. Dear June is my beloved, my friend whom I hold dear, and as I wait for dear June and the inevitable text, I ponder a world with more meaning yet less writing and flow—a world where I’m understood without searching for my words, a world where I’m happy and I’m not waiting for the inevitable. Because that’s all it is, whether it’s June or it’s death, I’m only waiting for the inevitable.
It kind of sucks but that’s also kinda the point. I lay there in the dark, stale room, hearing nothing but the janky fan and my own thoughts. Many of them seem to be removable from myself. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s a thought because everything is bland enough to be mushed together anyways. I hear music—an old classic piece or is it a 2011 pop song? I can’t seem to make it out. I hear thoughts about my thoughts. I hear worries about things that don’t matter. I’m exhausted from my own thoughts, and no amount of sleep can help me wake up. But at least I don’t feel when I’m asleep. Whether it’s good or bad, I’m numb. Maybe I’ll dream about something good, but in the morning, it doesn’t matter because I’ll forget all about it just like the universe will forget me eventually. Even the universe has mornings—mornings to wake up and have everything it dreamed fade away so it can dream anew in the night. Still, no matter how I dream or write, I’m still exhausted.