I am so tired, my friends. Not just worn out, but hollowed out. I carry a cynicism and a wandering spirit that feels terminal. This is not a tiredness that sleep can fix, but a fatigue that feels etched into my very marrow. It is a weariness I fear is permanent, a breakage that refuses to set. Sometimes I look at my hands and they feel ancient; I carry the weight of centuries, not years, my spine bent under the ghosts of eras I never lived. I am tired of being jaded, tired of the constant drift. Perhaps I missed the sermon where they taught us how to be human. I look around and see everyone else reading from a script I was never given, in a language I don't understand, marching toward milestones I cannot reach, broadcasting their triumphs while I struggle to find the frequency. And I wonder what vital piece of machinery was left out of me, if there is a fundamental error in my design. I am the spectator; I am the ghost at the banquet. I tell myself it is arrogant to think I am unique in this pain. I know I am one distinct point in a sea of eight billion, and that loneliness is a shared human condition. But the mind cannot convince the heart and the statistics offer no warmth. The knowledge only sharpens the blade of my solitude. To be surrounded by so many, and yet be known by none, is the loneliest feeling of all.
