I’m so tired I cannot write.

I used to write for fun, and then I found out I can earn from my writing skills. Now instead of finding joy from writing, recently it’s starting to feel more like a chore where I have to constantly come up with new ideas. So constant that I barely have time to dive deep in the things I really care about or interest me.

And it makes me sad because I used to really like writing, I used to put my soul in them. Now I can’t even type a sentence properly. My fingers stopped writing while my brain continued to produce things in my head. I’m starting to doubt everything I put into my writings, as a result I too start doubting myself.

New fresh ideas. Everyday. Who even has the time nowadays? Reading has become a luxury, and writing is a necessity. 

My fingers are tired of typing, my brain cannot think properly anymore, and my back is hurting from the amount of time I’ve spent leaning towards my laptop to produce things that weren’t processed enough by the heart. My stomach is in pain from all the coffee I drink daily. My eyes are tired from all the screen exposure. The workers’ eye bags, they say.

Part of me is grateful for the opportunity I have right now. At the same time though, most of me is tired. But it is a necessity. To survive and face the unknown. To be the voice of the no voice. There isn’t a voice, only made-up ones, that I have to make. In other words, nowadays I make noises.

At this rate, I wonder if I’m just an empty can that makes noises, or have I still got a voice somewhere inside me?

I can’t tell honestly. I don’t have enough time to do a soundcheck of my own band of one. The hours just aren’t enough!

Cannot complain, but I just wish for more time. And for people to chill a bit more. Or for them to understand the hard processes every writer has to go through. Or just any creative processes for that matter.

To understand that the inspiration we consume and the way we consume it affects our creative output. To understand that just like them, our time of the day is just as limited and we’re probably running out of our own timelines. Of our goals and idealism, of our hopes and feelings.

Is it really too much to ask for? To have a little bit of space and boundary for us to grow. To not just be noises. To have control of ourselves and have voices, oh what a luxury.

I probably don’t know what I’m talking about anyways. All of me is tired of being tired at the moment. But it’s 2AM as I’m writing this too, maybe I have to sleep.