The Chronicles: 2 ~ Love You
You’re tired. So tired. Not in the way that makes one yawn, no. Rather in the way that makes one feel too heavy to even breathe.
So tired.
You got up early this morning, you see. It’s still morning, but you wonder if you’re even awake yet. You wonder if you’ll ever wake up again.
The reason you got up so early is that you promised your little siblings you would type something out for them. So you did. But it was exhausting. Your fingers, stiff and heavy from sleep, fell like leaden pistons on all the wrong keys; like the rusty hammers of an old, tired piano that must pry loose their hinges before swinging up to viciously strike unmelodious clangs from deceased metal strings.
But you finished, at last, and leaving the computer, made yourself breakfast. Nothing tasted very good, and the very act of chewing bread made you want to sink down in slumber on your plate.
So tired.
You wandered around the house for a little while, then making your way to your bedroom, set about beginning the day’s schoolwork. At first you tried to engage your mind in your history-reading, but it was all too much. You didn’t get past the first paragraph. So it was, that with a sigh, you picked up Lord Jim and finished reading it for English.
“Fascinating story,” you think to yourself absently. Glancing out the window, you realize you’re still so very tired. Not even a book could wake you up? This is unusual . . .
Slowly you sip cold coffee from yesterday’s one-inch remains at the bottom of your brown mug. You wonder if perhaps this weariness can be attributed to the fact that you recently took up drinking coffee and black teas in the mornings. Are you relying too much on caffeine? Maybe . . . then again, it could be the weather. Cloudy gray skies and a cold, biting wind that tosses the still leafy tree-tops, blur a somber, wet landscape just beyond your window. There is no direct sunlight. You wonder if the sun himself is too sleepy to get out of bed this morning. You wish he would push the clouds away – then you might wake up.
Then again . . .
Your mom walks into the room, says your older brother’s name, hands you the phone, and walks back out again. With a tired smile you turn the phone on speaker and say “Hey, dude, what’s up?” After this he proceeds to exuberantly tell you about the new aspects of his world that he has been creating. The new characters, their new powers, the new dimensions to a single, dual, something-of-that-sort reality. All of it. You are once again struck at the fascinatingly methodical creativity of his mind. You try to get excited for him. Usually it isn’t this hard. Why can’t you get excited? You are struck at the hollow, grating sound of your own voice. As if a cave could talk. At last, he asks you: “What’s wrong?” Even he can tell you’re totally out of it. You answer with a vague “Life’s been tough.”
After that, he asks a few questions and you tell him everything. As you speak, slowly, struggling to breathe through the weight in your chest, you realize that you’re not physically tired. No, you could run for an hour, if you wanted to. Sure your legs hurt, but that’s just remnants from games at Youth Group last night. You could do it all again, if you wanted to.
If you wanted to. That’s the problem, you see: you don’t want to. You don’t want to do anything. Just sleep. Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful to sleep? For a day. For a week. A year . . .
Forever.
You shake yourself. Your brother is saying goodbye. He’ll be praying for you. You smile sadly and hang up, but just as the receiver clicks, you hear him say:
“Love you.”
You stare in shock at the black rectangle in your hands. When was the last time he said that? Your eyes sting and you sniff. The world gets blurry.
“You rat.” You mumble, scrubbing your eyes. You thought you were done crying! Oh, God, why are you crying again?
But I guess your brother knew you needed to hear that. You smile and cry, feeling so tired as you realize, at last, what your problem has been.
You are emotionally exhausted. Your feelings spent. Your heart depleted.
You draw a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly. That was so hard.
But you do it again anyhow.
“I love you too, dude,” you whisper, smiling down into the black rectangle’s reflection of your face.
Hey, you’re tired. You don’t want to do anything, but you’re doing it all because you know you need to.
So tired.
Then your Dad walks in, phoomps an Indiana Jones dress-up hat on your head with a:
“How’re you doing?”
You grin, straighten the hat, and tell him: “You just got yourself featured.”
He walks out again with a laugh.
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I love this glimpse into your life. :) <3 It is well-written, poignant, and really just a great slice of life. :)
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