Somehow a plug was pulled inside of me last Thursday, and everything is draining out.
I want to go to bed, to sleep, but I’m too busy having nothing to say.
Everything is too much. Everything is taking too much. I want to fix it before I go to bed, so tomorrow will be better, but there’s nothing left to fix with.
It’s the kind of hole you want to patch with chocolate peanut butter ice cream, except that it’s too late for that, because I feel too empty to even stick anything in my mouth.
The rational part of me says, go to bed. You’re tired. You’ll feel better in the morning with some sleep.
I am tired. Tired of being responsible. Tired of trying. Tired of not understanding any of it.
I want to say like Elijah, “Take me now! I can’t do any of the things!” And He basically says, “Stop whining and get up. No one gave you permission to quit.” I go on, because the world goes on. But things stopped making sense awhile ago, if they ever did make sense.
Who do I think I am? What audacity to get out of bed every morning.
But there is nothing else to do, so I do it.
Go to bed.
And get up in the morning.