My last weekly authentic was ambitious and hopeful. It made a lot of observations in the hopes of coming to grand conclusion about where I am with my life right now. I’m afraid that after a week and a half, I am still no closer to distilling the wisdom of what I am feeling right now. I can, however, use simpler words. I can talk about being stressed out without the extended metaphor. I can talk about not getting things done when I had planned without the six syllable words. You see, I am too tired to write flowers and hope. I am too tired to sit here and wax poetic or anything else for that matter. I am too tired to think.
I don’t take this feeling lightly. Thinking is my favorite pastime. It is what I do when I am feeling bored. Think and write. Being too tired to think is torture, like seeing the cookie jar on the counter and being too small to reach it. And yet, the exhaustion of working through my ideas is too much for me right now. Mental drain is real, and every one of my formerly available faculties have been slowly sucked down. I haven’t even the ability to rub two brain cells together to create the warmth of wit.
So, what can I do when my smarts smart? I start to explain things that are really going on. I give a play-by-play of everything I feel, because I have no filter, no way of getting around the inevitable.
I have a pile of papers to grade.
I haven’t written the lessons for when my baby is born.
My wife can’t sleep.
My dog keeps pooping in the house.
My tile floor keeps breaking.
I haven’t done my homework for Language Theory.
I’m not sure what else I can say. These are the things that make my mind mushy. These things weigh upon me, piling themselves on top of one another. So many others too. Also. In addition. As well.