don't feed the flame

When I woke up this morning, I was even more exhausted than usual. Wanting to sleep is a remnant of depression that I've never quite shaken; as horrible as it was, there was still something immensely satisfying about doing nothing, about having no motivation and feeling no guilt about being able to find no obligations whatsoever. Eight hours of sleep seems like so little to me as I stare up at the ceiling while the cat paws at the door, begging to be let in because he knows it's time for me to move even though rising is the last thing on my mind.

On the days I feel tired, tired is more than just what my body is. It is an emotion, a state of mind, an inescapable sinkhole with no solid edges for me to grab on to. Exhaustion is a monster that creeps out from underneath my bed, slithering up onto the sheets and drowning out the cat that wants nothing more than to rub his face on mine until I give him the attention he wants. Fatigue is a nagging thought in the back of my head that whatever needs accomplished that day can wait; after all, haven't I earned a day to slip away from all the anxiety, to give in to the monster that wants to keep away the people that love me?

When I look at the clock, it is seven in the morning, and I don't know how I'll make it to eight without losing my mind.