Sweet dreams
There are two kinds of tiredness: decent, and thankless.
The former is born of constructive labour and productive graft, whereby you've given your all, both physically and mentally, to the extent that you've no unfinished business rattling around your brain to prevent you from falling asleep the moment you rest your head on a pillow.
The latter, however, is born of fruitless and frustrating tasks that sap your energy through tedium and joylessness rather than a sense of accomplishment. You feel drained, but on somebody else's terms; a third party has been responsible for leaving you wasted and withered, and you've given your all but got nothing in return. As a result you're as weary as hell, but can't enjoy the sleep of the just. Indeed, rarely do do you enjoy any sleep at all, waking in the morning feeling just as dazed and wretched as you did the night before.
It's been a long time since I enjoyed the first; less than 24 hours since I last embarked on the second. London militates against deep and peaceful sleep, that's no secret; but on top of that has come a profound unfulfilment with the present course of my life and the nature of my work: supremely transitory, frustratingly insecure, eternally beyond my control. Each night I fall asleep in spite of, not because of, what I've done during the day, and as a consequence I feel like I've aged 10 years. Which is roughly the same length of time I also feel like I need by way of sleep.
So good night. At least, I hope it is.
The former is born of constructive labour and productive graft, whereby you've given your all, both physically and mentally, to the extent that you've no unfinished business rattling around your brain to prevent you from falling asleep the moment you rest your head on a pillow.
The latter, however, is born of fruitless and frustrating tasks that sap your energy through tedium and joylessness rather than a sense of accomplishment. You feel drained, but on somebody else's terms; a third party has been responsible for leaving you wasted and withered, and you've given your all but got nothing in return. As a result you're as weary as hell, but can't enjoy the sleep of the just. Indeed, rarely do do you enjoy any sleep at all, waking in the morning feeling just as dazed and wretched as you did the night before.
It's been a long time since I enjoyed the first; less than 24 hours since I last embarked on the second. London militates against deep and peaceful sleep, that's no secret; but on top of that has come a profound unfulfilment with the present course of my life and the nature of my work: supremely transitory, frustratingly insecure, eternally beyond my control. Each night I fall asleep in spite of, not because of, what I've done during the day, and as a consequence I feel like I've aged 10 years. Which is roughly the same length of time I also feel like I need by way of sleep.
So good night. At least, I hope it is.
posted by Alistair Myles at 10:16 pm
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