Fatigue

It is a sort of stillness and drudgery, diming the light- including the sun- and leaving life to lie in a heap, unharnessed and lame. A flock that has been wounded almost drops down in its knees. There is physical pain, behind the eyes. The skin a creeping, stinging tangle of nerve endings creating and giving up on itself making things seem as if they are sick to the stomach. Fatigue is unforgiving. It takes. Swallowing whole weeks at a time, churning in and over itself like a captured eel. Inky and unjointed, flowery with pain.  It rides into the sunset on an unwitting set of wings. Fatigue is like a slow fuck without the come. Just slow, attentive monotony making ill-fitting promises and writing bad checks; cashing in on the whimsical friends and although it may seem personal, it dare not. nothing personal about it, just that it exists and in this moment, in this room we find it feigning a sort of relief.