I Truly Feel Like the Dead

Maybe I’m not in the position to say that, but whatever: I’m tired as hell and my eye-bags carry only slightly less what my hiking-day pack usually consists of; I’m proud to a certain extent of my eye-bags, but other than that wish I would look less like the dead.

There are usually some days where the sky is overcast, cloud and mist collide together to blanket the city in gloomy grayness, and the real thunderstorm surges on within my being. It’s funny how my body can feel so alive, like it’s buzzing with tiredness, numb from the pain of pulling all-nighters, vibrating with the thought of staying up another night with cans of cold coffee to keep me company.

I truly feel like the dead when guzzling down coffee–the silky liquid, cold, does wonders to my throat and wakes up my mind just enough to last for, what, another one and a half to two hours? I truly feel like the dead when part of my vision is blocked by the crusty dirt lining my eyes like some kind of top-brand, highest-grade eyeliner–what natural decor, honestly! I truly feel like the dead when it’s already one hour to noon, 11 a.m and all I want to do is crash into my bed like an airplane wreck and not in the smooth, touch-down kind of way, either.

I truly feel like the dead when my mom’s special pepper pan-fried eggs fail to inject any energy into my veins. Yikes. That’s when I know that I’m finished.

What are holidays, anyway? They’re kind of painful once you get into the thick of it, perhaps two-weeks into the four-week holiday, you feel like you’re completely and absolutely screwed: How many days did you spend lounging around? How many outings did you go out on, how many planned-places-to-go-to did you actually go out of the house for? How many library books did you borrow, how many did you actually read, glossy cover to back-page? How  many weekends did you save for the gym, only to watch Korean ramas while binge-eating Korean BBQ chicken from a microwavable package? How many words did you write; you pledged to write half a novel this Summer holidays, didn’t you?

YIKES, you did it again–how many days did you while away? Did your rest more than you deserved to or slept far too little?

I need more discipline. It’ll make me feel more dead, but at least my brain will be occupied and not jump to thinking of even more idiotic, self-destructive questions.

I think I’ll yank the covers over my nose for now, let the laptop burn an unhealthy stain into my comforter, and slip beneath the shore-line of sleep.


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