My heart and I, we are tired of a great many things.
Sometimes, we are tired of the ignorance we see around us. We set aside our superiority and indignation, and we naively think we can talk this ignorance away. Soon, though, we are confronted with indifference, and we are forced to accept defeat.
Sometimes, we are tired of the pain. A pain that hides itself in silences and in crevices of bones, and another pain that visits us as the body that shelters us empties itself out every month.
Sometimes, we are tired of love. The platitudes have turned it murky, we say. It is frequently dishonest, often confused with duty and need for a captive audience. It leaves a void, or scars the size of countries. Its aftermath shatters us and makes us wary.
Sometimes, we are tired of the beauty around us, because we know it will be lost before we realise: sunsets the colour of navel oranges, trees that rise up slender and strong, moon the colour of milk that boils over.
Sometimes, we are tired of death, how final and cold it is, and decide ours will be different. It will be one of fanfare, loud in its celebration.
We have seen many things, my heart and I, and I think we shall be companions who do not betray, for the years that remain. But then one day, my heart tells me, Do not make me your confidante, your secrets grow over me like a second skin.
Prompt: “Tiring, isn’t it?” I used tiredness as a takeoff point for writing this.