That doesn't mean I'm not tired; I'm just not sleepy. No, I'm tired of a million things, specks in the eyes of others and logs in my own. Tired of repetitive patterns of senselessness, of inane prattle and self-indulgence. "Enough!," I long to shout at all within earshot, knowing that, truth be told, I am the first and foremost condemned in my exasperation.
Yet again, I'm glad it's not about me. Not my understandings, not my opinions, not my principles, not my personality, not my preferences, not my flaws, not my foolishness, not my righteousness. That's good news indeed— a very different "enough."
And I'm no more sleepy than when I began.