Some thoughts on fatigue

I would describe fatigue as a kind of drowsiness, a hefty and weighty thing that sloshes around inside of me. It is an absence of want, in some ways. I can’t say per se that I want to rest, since I don’t quite feel tired. I can’t say either that I want to do x, y, or z, since I don’t quite feel anything for them. No, it is as if I am in a desirous limbo, a liminality in which I neither want to nor want not-to. All feels, more or less drowsy, blurry, wishy-washy, and mediocre.

It is not as though in feeling as I do I ascribe valuelessness or meaninglessness to anything. No, in some ways that would presume I was conscious of such feeling in me. As I write I do not even feel this. I am content, truly speaking. I am fine being awake, I would be fine falling asleep. Of course, I know I have duties to fulfill and so I choose not to sleep or slack off precisely in virtue of that rational faculty which recognizes my social being and the necessities incumbent on my fulfillment thereof. But do I want to do such things? Not really. Do I want to not do them? Somewhat, but not really. I will do them all the same, and I will be fine in doing them. I will feel only a drowsy resistance thereto, something of a sack on my shoulder being drug beside me as I climb the hill of knowledge and, reaching the peak, I find that I’ve only done so with time unfortunately lost. I do not feel this is bad thing, not per se. No, it certainly isn’t a good thing, that’s for sure. It is not good per se, but then what it is might be neutral or bad. Perhaps it is both potentially, as incidental to its essentially not being good.

Whatever – I don’t really know. All I mean by that pseudo-logical diversion is to say I cannot speak of this matter positively. I will climb the mountain, I will slay the dragon. But what’s the point? I won’t feel anything in virtue of my having done so. No, I don’t even feel anything in response to the notion that I won’t feel anything. I will do what I must, and that is all. I do not have any distaste for any of this – all of these are mere statements of fact. It would be nice to rest my heavy eyes and lay sleeping for some time until the drowsiness might leave me but, alas, I don’t have that time to waste. I hardly have the time to be writing these thoughts down. I suppose, at this moment at least, that I’m only doing so for the sake of my future self, that I might remember how I felt here in distinction to how I might feel then.

What is the origin of this weighty feeling? Is it withdrawal from caffeine? Is it not having rested enough? No, surely it isn’t the latter, as I made sure to get 8.5 hours of sleep last night. Perhaps it could be the former as, even after having consumed caffeine earlier today, the amount I consumed was no greater than the amount I’d consumed the day prior. In fact, it was significantly less. What do I make of this? I really don’t know. What is it about me that leads me to feel this molasses on my members? Whence commeth that feeling of pleasure at being alive, that wanting-to-do for its own sake? Assuredly I could say that I want to manifest that wanting-to-do, but could I then be doing anything but ignoring that stickiness that drowses me? No, I don’t think I could.

What pleasure is to come about from the ignorance of one’s innermost soul? I suppose that is the difference between myself now and myself as had felt fatigue in the past. At times, I could simply ignore the overarching with foreknowledge that it would fade and some other state would take its place. But, now, it is as if there is nothing but singular states of my soul over large stretches of time, advanced increases in the same with little alterations thereto. I will do my work, but nothing will change – at least not today. Perhaps by the end of the day I will have found some energy, like lifting a heavy rock and uncovering gold beneath. If not today, then perhaps by tomorrow. But, in finding tomorrow what I needed today, my exercise will again be limited to what tomorrow has in store for me – how can i guarantee that such energy will remain with me by Sunday? I cannot.

Fatigue is such a monstrous thing. It could be worse, for sure. I could have myself worried sick about it, unable to get anything done. At least I can do something with myself rather easily – how horrible would it be to feel resistance so great that it provided for slips to the slopes I must climb? I thank God that things aren’t so bad as that. But could things be better? Surely they could – it would be nice to feel awake, alive, and desirous of what things might come. It would be nice to want to be, certainly. It would be nice to want to do, this I know, too. Who does not enjoy the thrill that comes from having realized a speculation had? And what is the origin of speculation except that energized desire for realization? Ah, the two seem together bound in some pre-logical aspect of mind, motivation, which douses desire in oil and sets it ablaze with its kinetic kindling. It would be nice for a fire to start in my soul. Right now, it seems embers from a fire long dead are now wet, soggy, and awaiting the winds of time to blow them dry so that oil might seep in and let the blaze start anew.

Rain, rain, go away – come again some other day.