Tiredness

We get born. We grew up in more or less dysfunctional families, and we start searching for our own families, promising we would not repeat the mistakes of our parents. Or, on the contrary, we fully embrace them. Somewhere, we start working, becoming so workaholics that we can’t remember when or how we started this, and since when work is the only thing we really have. We read books, we find a job that suits us, we write PhD.s, ignoring all our social life for something we are not quite sure why we’re doing (and we'll probably end in bankruptcy), we work too many hours, we search for connections in this absurd, meaningless world, although we have been fully aware from the beginning how lonely we are. We work. Swallowing all our words that we want so desperately to scream. We work. Swallowing all the feelings. We work. Swallowing all we want to say if someone asked us how we really feel. Work on our jobs, on our theses, if we still have time, even on our relationships. We work so much and we get so tired that this Tiredness seems a part of us, like that big, black shadow depression used to be represented somewhere on the Internet. So tired that we feel it like part of us, like our limbs. Going with it to bed, waking next to it in the morning, going to work with it, to parties, shopping, present there, every second of our lives. We wait to fall asleep and maybe our brains will forgive and give us a nice dream, like the one sitting next to a friend, looking at a lake. But sometimes not even in sleep Tiredness doesn’t let us be. And one day, just like that, we drop dead, without knowing, without warning.

Another image of Life

Call it the Wild West, Humanity, the human being, or simply Life.  

"There was a lull in the dancing and a second fiddler took the stage and the two plucked their strings and turned the little hardwood pegs until they were satisfied. Many among the dancers were staggering drunk through the room and some had rid themselves of shirts and jackets and stood barechested and sweating even though the room was cold enough to cloud their breath. An enormous whore stood clapping her hands at the bandstand and calling drunkenly for the music. She wore nothing but a pair of men's drawers and some of her sisters were likewise clad in what appeared to be trophies - hats or pantaloons or blue twill cavalry jackets. As the music sawed up there was a lively cry from all and a caller stood to the front and called out the dance and the dancers stomped and hooted and lurched against one another. 

And they are dancing, the board floor slamming under the jackboots and the fiddlers grinning hideously over their canted pieces. Towering over them all is the judge and he is naked dancing, his small feet lively and quick and now in doubletime and bowing to the ladies, huge and pale and hairless, like an enormous infant. He never sleeps, says. He says he'll never die. He bows to the fiddlers and sashays backwards and throws back his head and laughs deep in his throat and he is a great favorite, the judge. He wafts his hat and the lunar dome of his skull passes palely under the lamps and he swings about and takes possession of one of the fiddles and he pirouettes and makes a pass, two passes, dancing and fiddling at once. His feet are light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die."

(Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy)

Avalanche

It is funny how when you need your peace of mind the most, the entire world seems to go crazy, and your soul is caught in an avalanche of sorry, of pain, of angriness and depression, of madness, of loneliness, of tiredness, of giving up .... chocking, desperately trying to breathe and find a tiny Ray of sun.