Getting to the Other Side of Tired

Some days suck for no good reason.

Yesterday was one of those days for me. I was mentally tired all day, and little things kept getting to me. (In the light of a new day, they weren't that little, and it's kind of reassuring to know they were things worth worrying over.) I struggled through the morning, and then fought my way through work.

By the time I left at the end of the day, I decided that only a bottle of my favorite wine would make me feel better. So I stopped and got one, and it turned out that my favorite wine is not my favorite anymore. (Or maybe I got a bad bottle.) It made me want to throw things and break stuff and scream, but instead I just sat in bed with Spousal Unit and hated on crossword puzzles.

On days when I can't figure out what set me off in the first place - days when I'm just a little down or need an extra hug and no one's around to give it - I always end up thinking of a particular poem. Reading it, while it doesn't cure anything, reminds me of the happy stuff I have. It reminds me that Spousal Unit is there for me with nothing but love. It reminds me that there are beautiful things out there, even if the haze of sadness is obscuring them from my view. It reminds me that everyone gets tired. Everyone just wants to collapse sometimes, and that's okay.

Better things will come.


You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

~ e.e. cummings

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