Please turn on your magic beam/Mr Sandman, bring me a dream
All my friends are tired.
They are reporting tiredness wherever they are — a bone deep exhaustion that makes them want to take to their beds for a week, maybe two weeks, or perhaps three months (who would miss us, really?). Something, anything, to take the raw edge of their tiredness down from 'acute' to 'somewhat liveable'. We are mainly millennials, so we tell each other how exhausted we are using memes and hyperbolic tweets (that aren't too far away from the truth, actually!) and those of us who drink are maybe drinking a little bit more and those who don't are doing...something else a little more.
The tiredness is making us more child-like, even as events around the world are pushing us further into our true identities, which is to say, adults who are not innocent. We might not be involved in violent regime change and election tampering and seemingly actively courting impeachment but there is a feeling of complicity that we can't shake. However small, we have come to the conclusion that we are responsible. If not for the whole mess, surely for the cleanup. Of course we are tired. What else is there to be?
This week I have been reading She Said, by the Pulitzer winners Megan Twohey and Jodi Kantor. I'm not even halfway through despite dutifully putting it in my backpack every morning. The subway is ill-suited to standing and reading. More importantly, I am so tired. I'm not sure what I think about the book because I'm so tired. The tiredness is overwhelming. It's impairing my ability to read.
What a world we have built.
PS: I have missed writing this letter. Did you know our podcast Thirst Aid Kit is back? Well, it is! Won't you give us a listen? Cheers.