Fatigue and all that, carrying on, carrying me forward, carrying me home. Gonna aim for a lot of posts today, and the last thing I need is fatigue dragging me down. It’s holding onto me like a thick and drenched blanket, anchoring me down, preventing my from shining at my worst. Can’t write crap if feeling this tired. Can only write crap, and that’s crap.

There’s this industrial hum in this building, and I suspect it’s the sound of air being conditioned. That’s what I suspect it is. It stretches through a space with a lot of hardened surfaces, and it just keeps going. I listen to music, but I hear the drone.

I’m feeling tired and emotionally drained and all of those things that someone who was a bit mean would classify as fun. It’s not fun for me. Not fun right now,. not fun ever. I need sleep I need rest. Not getting enough, need more, and so on and so forth. And so, instead of writing something that captures something poignant about the smallness of life, I’m complaining about being tired. Again.

Perhaps there are limits to mediocrity when it comes to writing. Perhaps I am not as powerful as I hoped to be. Powerful in my crap. Ha.

This building is a space seen by many and understood by some, and I’m just a participant here. Just a participant, writing away, trying to make sense of things that don’t need to be made sense of. This place almost feels eternal. It’s not. It most definitely has limits, but sometimes it feels like it stretches on forever and ever, and there’s little getting away from its shape and halls and everything.

One tends to spend a lot of their life in buildings, or at work. A lot of life lived in a place we don’t live. How profound, or something. But a god chunk of people do spend their lives away from home, even if locally away. It makes me wonder as to how we got this way. Should we treat home as home? Should we just treat it as shelter and little else? Of course, there is need to maintain things. Need to make sure everything works and functions as intended. And maybe there is need for comfort, to help reduce stress. But at what point is a home where we live? We do part of our living there, sure, but can not a building in which we work also be home?

Different kind of home, I guess.

These are thoughts that I think are worth thinking, but perhaps not right now. There are a lot of things to do and little time in which I can do them. Need to get through the day, to the end of it. Need to do a lot of writing. Need to get a good deal of rest later, too. And need to push through the being as tired as I am so I can get my writing done.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 06:55:74

It was a heavy day today. Still is. Still tired. Wrote something I’m not exactly happy with, but at least captured the moment well.

Written at work.