Limits

There's a kind of tiredness that goes to the very bone, into the marrow, and that's the kind I'm feeling now. Experience tells me, this too will pass. In the meantime, carry it with you, an offering to the dark.

The best evocation of tiredness I know of in literature is Willy Loman's in Death of a Salesman. I read the play at sixteen, seventeen and thought I understood it, but was unable to feel it to the bone, or anywhere close. I saw it performed in Manchester when I had gone thirty and began to grasp it. One of the party I saw it with, younger than me, has long passed the point of weariness.

Tonight I'm closer to an understanding of Miller's fundamental truth. That's the great thing about feeling shattered - it lets the light in. It makes you a little more human.