Tiredness. It’s a by product of this pandemic. A lot of us are tired a lot of the time. Tired of the rising death toll, the deceitful, treacherous politicians. Tired of the relentless trickle of bad news. Really bad news you couldn’t make up in a million years if it wasn’t for the fact it was scrolling across your TV screen on Fox or Sky or whatever channel you were enduring at that very moment in time. I’m tired of all this. I’m tired of being tired.
Tiredness desensitises us. We become so tired we don’t care anymore, turning our backs on the horrors of the daily news. Tiredness erodes empathy and compassion. It dulls our ability to love those we do not know and reveals the jagged edges of our souls. We become irritable, our resolves of patience at an all time low. We cease to care as to care is to expose your mind to pain and heartbreak.
It’s a two way street. Why should I care about a government who twist the truth to suit their own needs? Why should I care about those who openly flout the guidelines and put their own base desires before the lives and welfare of their own citizens? Am I stooping to their level, am I better than that? Possibly but I don’t care enough to slam on the brakes and edge back from the edge of that particular abyss.
Tiredness permeates every cell of our bodies, it’s a creeping osmosis of apathy and indifference. We are riddled with it, yet we don’t care. Rather, we embrace it, wrapping ourselves deep within its numbing embrace. We crave the sense of nothingness, we seek out the dark. For it hurts less than the light of truth, a truth that reveals the world for the train wreck it has become. We near the end of the tracks, destined to teeter over the precipice.
Routine kills. It sucks the marrow from your bones, leaving you brittle, dry and devoid of emotion. You become too tired to be angry anymore and when that time comes, you are in deep, incomparable trouble. A trouble from which there is no gallows reprieve, no last throw of the dice. When you no longer care, you’re no longer there, not really. You become a ghost encased in a tomb of flesh and sinew.
The heart still pumps but what for, what need is there for it anymore? Better surely to lay down by the roadside, to step off the beaten track and no longer scan the horizon ahead for signs of hope? A fractured faith is better than no faith at all he once said but what did he know? Better to wallow in the prose and poetry of the dying than bask in texts of joy and love. The words of old prophets turned to ash and dust, lying unread in motel drawers.
The vultures are circling overhead, keen to descend and pick at the carcass of what might have been. Our world will never be the same again, yet many of us are too tired to care anymore. Numbers are meaningless, my moral compass spins out of control as the voice holds sway. For I must be a bad person to have such thoughts, to wish an end to the idiots in power and all those beneath them. We, the uncaring, are damned.
So I’ll get up and watch the news even though I’ve seen it all before. I’ll scroll down the social media feeds, an obsessive desire to slowly drive by the car crash one more time. I have to see it again, to take it in with my own eyes. One time, one hundred times, it matters not. My incredulity is as before, my battered emotions ready for another pummelling. Tiredness intervenes, throwing in the towel to prevent another beating. It is a blessing. Too tired to care.