“My head aches, my eyes burn, my arms and legs have given up, and my face in the mirror has a grayish cast. The bed, across the room, calls in its unmistakable lover’s croon, Come to me, come, only I can make you truly happy, oh, how happy I’ll make you, don’t resist, remember how you moan with pleasure the instant we touch…..
― Lynne Sharon Schwartz,
And so my dearest beloved, my friend forever and my closest confidant (as I often murmur unspeakable secrets into the non-so-fluffy-anymore cushions) calls out to me. Unkempt and chaotic, my bed seems to purposefully mimic my life and circumstance; so as to say-
I am just as you, like you.
And therefore shall not judge you.
I shall welcome you to my soiled but loving sheets with nothing but comfort and understanding.
I shall not croon words of advice or sing songs of fake commiseration.
I shall offer you the biggest gift of all.
And a gentle place to rest your tired limbs and jaded mind.
Come to me, my love.
And we shall together dream dreams of a brighter, better day.
I realize now, that exhaustion, like everything else in life is relative. And incomparable. At 23 I thought being on-call for 30 hours was exhaustion. Little did I know, there are levels of exhaustion that are far, far beyond the limits of my then young, juvenile mind.
There are also several kinds of exhaustion. Metaphorical, physiological, philosophical, physical, mental, notional, fruitful and utterly unproductive. And then there is a type that cripples you. A dark, demonic concoction of all of the above.
There is price to pay for everything, folks. But it is thoroughly unfortunate and oddly ironic, if the price for material contentment is arrant exhaustion. For the latter shall never let you savor the former.
Till next time,