I’m tired.

Sick and tired, to be precise.

Did nothing all day and it was a waste of time. By “nothing”, I mean a two-hour Uni seminar which was a waste of time, followed by a bunch of nothing and then a bunch more nothing. So much nothing!

Sure there were things in there, filling duties to others based on duties I’ve placed on myself, and some socialisation to try to spice up the mix. But I’m tired of pandering to social and subcultural norms. I feel bound by a subcultural expectation to behave a particular way, and I’m over it.

I am sick and tired of having to run my life in the direction of some perpetually elusive future. I am fed up with going towards something, or perhaps better put, having to decide that the present boredom or struggle is worth enduring because eventually I might realise that I’ve reached something better. I’m tired of having to go about daily life persuading myself to decide to make each moment interesting or joyful or meaningful purely because most of the moments are the dullest thing I could possibly imagine, only occasionally brightened by one seeming intrinsically good.

I have had enough with slogging through study days and forcing myself to apply myself, only to collapse into bed at some unearthly hour due to my screwed up body clock. I’m tired of the limitations of working two days a week and studying full time – sixteen paid hours in a week which requires about 60 hours of productivity, plus costs.

I’m so sick and tired I start to wonder dark and macabre things. Nobody would even have a clue that so much thickly swirls just underneath, so close to breaking the surface. I confront a void of black impossibility and question why it’s impossible that I should consider venturing out past the point of no return. Driving home tonight, within the space of 3 seconds, I can recall 8 such confrontations, each of them lightning fast, distinctly separate and grossly morbid.

But we can’t have that, can we? Everything has to be rosy, all the time, whenever anybody asks, because it should be. What could possibly be wrong? How could Mr Optimist be suffering such turmoil? He’s just him, they say with a smile, and previously I would have grinned widely, agreed wholeheartedly, and set my mind on pumping up my own opinion of the next thing I have to do. No longer.

Sick and tired. So over it. I want out. Let me out!