A poem of superman. God. Reflection. Batman. Life. And love...
I'm Tired
I’m tired.
I’m tired of waking up in a groggy fucking mood.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of my expensive tastes. Tastes that suck the funds from my account. Tastes that supposedly mount in elation as my quality of life ‘rises’. I’m tired of food.
I’m tired.
Tired of sleep, tired of wake, tired of dream, tired of nightmares, hopes and visions that blur into one unhealthy ambition of such a degree that I’ll never get there. Struggling to climb up this mountain, legs aching, back breaking, tears streaming from my blood-shot eyes as each second takes its toll on my energy; my life. I’m tired.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of me.
Tired of trying to be someone that I’m supposed to be; tired of waking up each morning and pretending to be the thing that we can never see as a reflection in the mirror. A mirror will always tell the truth, although we stay blinded. Blinded, even though the proof… the proof is staring us back in the face and we distort and manipulate each trace of flesh that returns our glance because we cannot face ourselves.
I’m tired.
Tired of denial; although acceptance is a futile little monster dashing around my mind, evading every single time I try to trip him up and catch the sneaky little bastard. There’s no reward for denial; just longer suffering. A refusal to identify and accept the tiny things staring back at you that make you great. Denial is a wave on an ocean tide, crashing and thrashing me inside every time I move to try to be productive, making me sick, making me keel over and sit my sorry ass down for trying to benefit myself, for trying to change, for trying to grow.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of being tired.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself and refusing to find the motivation to stop. Water circling the drain cannot pull itself out of the suction; an avalanche can’t just pull itself around and say, ‘hey, you know what? I’m tired of falling. Tired of rolling and balling and causing such a catastrophic mess; let me be as I am and avoid all distress, avoid change, avoid progression, avoid a development of myself by colliding with others and becoming something great. I am fine as I am; by myself. It’s far better if I stay static, you know, for my health’.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of not sharing my problems. Of feeling like shit and lacking all capacity to do something about it. Effort is not effortless. The search for motivation can sometimes be demotivating. And who’s there to push and share your burdens, to pull you back up when you fall down? In reality? No one. Others can project their hollow words upon you and tell you how easy it is and how much better it will all soon be, but like the leaves on the tree, the slightest blow will tear you away from the safety of the cluster and you will float gently down to the ground. Alone.
So there’s the rub.
With no one there to help you up, who are you going to call?
Ghostbusters?
No.
Batman?
No.
Superman?
NO.
Father Christmas?
NO.
Mum?
NO.
Dad?
No.
God?
HELL NO!
In the famous words of Scrubs’ very own Dr. Perry Cox. ‘You are born alone, you damn well die alone.’
And here we are.
Swimming the sinking sea, climbing the crumbling mountain, chasing the endless winds, to find out who we are, and how we can better ourselves.
And if you thought this was a poem of despair, you’re wrong. So damn wrong. This is a poem of truths.
Motivation finds us in the strangest of times. That fuzzy little monster has to rest sometimes; and in those moments we catch it, harnessing the power to do some good, we find it. That golden droplet of truth that really tells us who we are; that tells us we are capable and that we can go far. Because we can; and when we do… that is to say, when we drop all pretence and accept our positions in the world, forgetting all the bullshit other expectations that circle our heads like cartoon birds waiting to be swatted away by Sylvester, the loveable, yet dysfunctional cat... I digress.
When we find these moments, moments in which we must act instinctually, animalistacally; in which we find ourselves relying on just ourselves and only ourselves, and harnessing and caressing the powers that we alone possess, we can be anyone.
The Ghostbusters?
Yes.
Batman?
Yes.
Superman?
Yes.
Father Christmas?
YES.
Mum?
Erm… maybe not so much.
Dad?
Again, a bit tricky.
God?
Fuck, YES!
The Gods of our own universe. God of a solipsistic state of being in which we, as ruler of our own life, accept the small things, shrugs off misgivings, shines and polishes mistakes until they gleam and set our whole worlds on fire because we can watch it burn; and in turn, by relaxing to life, and allowing it to wash over us, soaking up the Sun and absorbing everything that life has to offer, like the smallest rose that bursts through the concrete. We can make it.
We can live.
So there it is. Life is a lullaby, a hushed whisper that sends us to our dreamland, and that dreamland is whatever we can make it. Life is not measured by possessions, or friends, or even love.
Life is not measured. Life is lived.
So fare thee well friends, I swander back to my dreamland.
I am tired.