I’m so tired, I am flagging and waiting for home time. I know that I’m not allowed to feel tired because I chose to have a child and that therefore robs me of the right to complain about any malady that is infant-inflicted.
The bottle of Coke is emptying quickly and I have got rid of all but one of the finished cups of tea on my desk. The last drops of caffeine course through my veins egging on my lethargic limbs to keep going. My fingers are conserving energy by shutting down the muscles so my digits are not as much typing as falling upon the keyboard.
This feeling is the aftermath of two nights of limited sleep, but I am unable to blame anyone. The cries of a baby are not ringing in my ears nor am I stressed about a particularly loud lorry. My body is letting me down.
Sitting at my desk it is happy to feel lazy and ready to drop off, yet at five in the morning it pings awake. Today is the second day of early to rise and late to sleep, for as much as my body is desperate to see the dawn (which doesn’t occur till I get too work) it savours the darkness of midnight, and gone midnight.
This is hour four and a half under the glare of the buzzing lights, the same as my time with my eyes shut. My work accomplishments surround me, providing a sense of worth to the 270 minutes I have spent on the computer. Yet sleeping that length has not refreshed me at all.
Why do I sit panicking about how long I had left in bed when I don’t have the same neurosis about finishing work? Maybe I will stand up and decide that as it is soon clocking out time I may as well go home now. That is the attitude my body has when it woke earlier this morning.
So I shall sit here, tired, waiting to go home, full of liquid (that will normally decide to leave my body at 5.30am as I try to return to sleep) and dreaming of my bed.
Where, unlike now, I shall be wide awake.