There Are Different Kinds of Tired

Sometimes I hesitate to write posts that are about less-than-happy topics, because I’d rather uplift people than bring them down, but I’m inspired by “The Healing Power of Sadness” by Juansen Dizon (Lonely Blue Boy), to which I can relate from past experience and new nigglings of old emotion. None of us always feel happy. Yes, it’s good to feel better if we can, but not feeling good is all part of this massive experience. To suppress the latter is to make a lie of the former.

At the times in recent years when I’ve stared at the aftermath of exploded dreams or in the face of horrors, I have felt so weary. Soul-tired. Sapped in a way that I cannot replenish with sleep or movement or hope. And I wonder why I’m doing all this: toiling toward Ireland, living in and on other people’s property, struggling to make sense of senseless things. Well, what on Earth am I supposed to do? There’s nothing else, no other calling of my heart to action.

For now.

So I wake up to the alarm again, and I fill out survey after mindless survey, enter one sweepstakes after another, do another day of work, day after day — all, I hope, toward some better place that the so-called gurus say is already within me. Fuck them. What’s in me —

And my grandma distracts me because she needs to pee and has vehement opinions to share about her little world. Haha! So it goes.

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Glowing in the Dim

I have an hour and a half left of my shift at Grandma’s. She’s resting quietly on the couch. It’s the first day in a while that I’ve had a moment of time in which I’m engaged enough to write and have the time to do it.

A light wind blows tall sunswept grass. Sometimes I stop to watch it. It soothes me, speaks to me. It talks about the passing of time and things eternal: always rising, falling, or fallen, creating movement, leaving breathless peace in its wake, and coming back no matter what.

The wind is like my love: the deepest love from my deepest depths. Sometimes this love blazes out from me and sometimes it’s quiet, but it’s always there, if only in potential. It comes back no matter what.

If wings are flight, and flight comes from happy thoughts, then my wings are attached to my heart like a cheesy image of a heart with wings. Or — less cheesy, maybe? — like the Golden Snitch in Quidditch.

When I’m done at Grandma’s for today, I’ll head down to the city for a burlesque show. My friend Funny Rob schmoozed a front-row table. I’m blasé about getting dressed up and whatnot, but Rob needs a distraction, having inexplicably lost a Canadian job offer that was so in the bag that he moved out of his place and shipped all his stuff to Prince Edward Island. Now he’s jobless and homeless.

Anyway, it’ll be good to get out and do something.

Tomorrow, my day off, I’m going to a metal wedding. Again, there’s the getting dressed up and what-all, but it’ll be worth it — good to see all those guys, and I haven’t been to a metal wedding before.

I got the motivation to put the fuchsia in my hair that I’d been holding onto for the right moment since I bought it on Earth Day. (My hair, previously blue, had faded.) Fuchsia feels very good — any new color would’ve, really. This pixie glows again, albeit from the shadows.