Exhaustion is sucking the joy out of my life, making everything, even the simplest task, harder, less satisfying and terribly mundane. When even the comfort of curling up to lose oneself in a novel is frustrating, the characters do not ring true, simply because absolutely everything grates against my consciousness. Visceral or trivial it is easy to expose the nerves of one frayed. It is so hard to quell irritation and connect as one truly wishes too… Not myself, simply because exhaustion has me firmly in her clutches, I feel like a small bird preyed upon by a vast encompassing, ravenously aggressive raptor. My usual graciousness is gone, I feel like Rudyard Kipling’s Rhinoceros with crumbs beneath my skin prickling and irritating my tender flesh. I seek ways to find relief but blessed calm is so very elusive to my hampered mind. Creativity, usually an enticing and uplifting foray, feels stilted and my words estranged and fierce. I am, right now, an utter stranger to myself.


Words, KP

Images from here


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