I am tired of concealing the smile tattooed on the face of my heart.
I much prefer to bare it to the world.
Instead, I sit alone in the company of make-believe;
scavenging time and the rubble of memories
to determine which are real and which are contrived.
I am exhausted by the low-hanging fog of uncertainty,
And the odd stillness that envelopes me,
making it harder to make sense of the enduring silence.
It forces me to bite my tongue and manage feelings.
I am growing tired of the relentless, rumbling pretence
with its feigned excitement,
the failed attempts to disguise the tortured disappointment,
or to recover untouchable, vanishing dreams.
I resent not having the strength to break the grip of the past.
I am tired of watching the world spinning anticlockwise,
a world in which reality and fantasy are indistinguishable;
where facts and fiction seem interchangeable
and truths are often gutted and revised for convenience.
I am especially tired of pseudo-intelligent armchair shrinks
who thrive on minutiae and opine on everything.
I am beginning to dislike the so-called experts talking at me,
trying to tell me how to live and what to believe.
I am tired of the know-it-all evangelising.
They do not know me, us.
And surely, they will never know the rugged topographies of my discomfort,
let alone, those weary grievances that lurk beneath my heart’s skin.
I am tired of looking at suitcases parked at the front door,
staring at me, looking outside, but too timid to hit the road,
too afraid to take a chance and venture into the unknown…
I am tired of thinking about how tired thinking makes me.
I want to kick up my heels and breathe…
empty my mind or simply eat a crisp croissant and drink matcha mocha
while visual love songs fill my eyes.
I want to feel feelings without judgement, without the need to conform.
I am tired…
just tired of being tired.