Textling #8

Energy-wise things keep sliding. Sleep-thieves strike most nights, and while they’re at it trample on my hands and sow doubt in me noggin about – almost everything. Because fatigue entraps the body and beyond; untethers thought, drive, desire; severs connection; makes you wonder what (not who) you are.

At its worst it consumes me: I lie tightly coiled for hours, limbs in a knot, like a fossilised pretzel. Speech globs on the tongue, eyes are stuck in an empty gaze. There is no distraction – I cannot read, watch tele, listen to the radio. Silence spreads in my head, heavy, and cold as a snowball. Every so often brain pounds out alliteration loops, or spiralling versions of I’m so tired, I’m so tired which I try to slow so I can put a tiny wedge between myself and this feral thing we call fatigue.

As I resurface selfhood is as insubstantial as a dust bunny. But there’s a place in me where something stirs, and all I want is reach – through layers of weariness – and let a string of words swim up from its sediments.

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