I am tired all the time. When I say tired, I am not tired to go out and buy grocery for the house, or offer a helping hand in the kitchen, or help someone fix something that involves mental or physical strain. But again, I’d do all of these just because someone else wants it of me. I am tired to move a muscle for myself. I am tired when it comes to official responsibilities. I am tired when it’s about working on personal growth. I am tired when it comes to taking one step that can make ‘my’ life better. I am still doing all of these tasks too. I perform well officially, I joined swimming classes, I work on some ‘me’ time – but all of these come with a baggage of an afterthought – do I really have to do this. That part of the question is where I get stuck. I am often lost as to why I am doing something for myself. I just don’t see the point at times. I love writing. It feels like some kinda elevated relaxation to me. I feel lighter and heavier at the same time after I scribble something. And that’s one thing I have tried my best to keep up with. You see, I wrote lackadaisical instead of just plain lethargy – voracious reading in the past paid off finally perhaps. I am eager to put in new thoughts every time I think of writing. But over the course of time, I am not sure if I have been fully fair to myself. I just caught myself shuffling through an old diary to see if there’s something I can use for tonight’s blog. Suddenly, I find myself too tired to even write. Why! I am not sure if this the end of a beginning or the beginning of an end. Sure doesn’t look like a phase to me. Too tired to bring this to a logical closing, or too lazy maybe, I give up abruptly again.