of pugilism and exhaustion
i throw fists. i am the fighter, the pugilist. i do it gladly. i was not meant for much else, i think. “mental illness,” in all of its forms, cannot conquer me. it will not. if i am meant for nothing else, i am to perform one fateful act, one act of normalcy, as a triumphant return to the world. i have been gone for a long time. wrapped in my bubble of synaptic violence, the challenges evolve and change.
i’m tired, now. both physically and mentally. just so tired. the universe seems to conspire against my literal sleep patterns. the bipolar doesn’t allow me to fall asleep, the apnea reduces the quality of my sleep, and the diabetes insipidus makes me wake routinely from said sleep.
so. i am tired.
one cannot appreciate the fist fight in exhaustion until fists are raised and repeatedly, repeatedly dropped from said exhaustion. i find it hard to get to work every day. if i am to be honest, i have done a poor job of getting there on time. thank the heavens for fmla. my job is not difficult, i find it neither challenging nor rewarding. perhaps that is the point, no? i’m just pigeon holed into this realm of cubicle hades.
i have no degree. i have no bankable skills. i never learned a trade. so here i am, in the nondescript category of office work. administrative duties, if you will. yet, i can’t help but feel that i could be meant for more than just a placeholder while i complete the book and the games that aren’t being completed. basically, the cover story becomes the main event when the behind the scenes actions are failing.
i spend an inordinate amount of time nodding my head and going along with the company line while, in the back of my mind, i want to slap these people upside their heads and let them know how it could go, how it should go, basically point out the fact that the whole operation is a sham. the whole thing is fraudulent.
but yeah, i am tired. it makes the acquiescence all that much easier, when i have very few brain cells actually lighting up for roll call. i just…go with it i pretend not to have empathic skills or an iq above average. it’s the ultimate poker. i am just patient, ultra patient. i juts wait and wait and wait for my point to be made. i force nothing. i’m too tired for a full frontal assault.
so i throw fists. after all, i am the pugilist. i do it gladly. it’s what i’m here to do. i just wish work had more meaning, more purpose. i battle every morning to get there, only to be disappointed in the offerings, every day. i throw fists, but i’m just reaching air. i’m merely shadowboxing, as my periphery systems take care of this job. i’m just shadowboxing here and my projects aren’t getting done. i’m grinding it out, every day.
good thing i’m too tired to notice.
this post was supposed to end there. “i’m too tired.” that was supposed to be the last line. but every time i read it, every time i run it in my head, i am disgusted. i’m throwing fists. i am the pugilist. i’m throwing fists in the mirror. shadowboxing. i’m throwing fists, i am the pugilist, i am the fighter, so i will….fight this.