Tiredness

Extreme tiredness, a body which says no!, but somehow, on top, floating on top, usurper, a will to write, to fill the post box with typing. Who would ever read this? Who could ever take time to read this? Posts stolen from the time I saw to have spent in Yorkshire this weekend with R.M. Travel difficulties: R.M.’s reluctance to use the train have kept me here in my city in the office, sheltered from the glorious sun. But what tiredness! What sapping of strength!

As though my body belongs to the earth – as though, botched golem, the wrong words were written on my forehead. Frantic activity because my strength is draining. Light lunch to make sure there are no more demands on my poor, heavy body. It already weighs enough. What is left of me, here, writing, is like wave-froth on the deep body of the sea. Purely superficial, pure surface, spreading itself like a wave on the beach, sea-foam rounding forward.

The afternoon will be a single block of tiredness. There will no gym, just as there was no gym this week. Work, I tell myself, make hay, but I’ve written nothing. Nothing except what I write here which only marks the time I should have spent working. New stupid plan to fill the entire front page of the blog with posts written on a single day. Just for my own sake. Just to prove I was here and intended to work. Just to mark my persistence in time and to struggle against tiredness.