Tiredness, and not a harsh, helpful tiredness such as he would be able to use, but a pathetic, cloying, paralysing tiredness, overcame him.
“It’s just another day. It’s just another effort. Everything will be okay.”
He didn’t know quite to whom he spoke but he felt that the words should resonate, somehow, with some presence, some being, other than himself. He was wrong. In fact, they did not even resonate with himself. He had listened to himself spouting the same platitudes for weeks and suddenly, enraged by his hopelessness, his uselessness, his mediocrity, with a reflex that surprised even him, his right hand clenched itself into a fist and rose up, smacking against his face several times in quick succession. No restraint. He was sitting on the floor, leaning up against the brick wall, and punching himself forcefully in the face.
The tiredness prevented him from more permanent damage, and in his rage, he began to sob gently.
When he looked up at the sky, he noticed that it was morning again, and his head was filled with thick, sweet, syrup-like fatigue as he rose up and staggered back to his home. He would sleep a little. Maybe tonight he would feel better.
Better? He didn’t even remember what “better” was.