Fatigue ehk väsinud

The first of March has deteriorated to the afternoon. Pile after pile has been heaped upon me since the break of dawn. Fatigue dried me to the point of irritation while hunger mingled with a dazed consciousness. Hazy spots and figures pulled my eyes to West, to left, to eyelids closing. When it was through, it was not through at all with me. Hostile skin carried hostile clothes, sealing me from hostile world. The cold felt cheap, unimaginative. The cold felt like it had lost its commitment. Broken and tiring, but never leaving yet. The start of March was the end of winter's spell, never will I look at the same snow again in peace, until summer shatters this haunting. Sleep should scatter these tauntings, so physical it's alien. I'm not weak nor sunk in depression – I carry in me an expression of puzzlement; bewildered by some distant aching, not my personal, but intrusive. Fishlike hands fretting my bones, sandlike blanket choking my skin. A whiff of air with nicotine beats down the tar and fumes on lungs. Cough. No? Well, I'm not sick. I praise my health – don't know To Whom – and roll myself another spliff. I think I should, I know it's not the same after all I've had of it. Dull, I say. Dull to smoke. Perhaps I'll go and sleep some rest.