I’m stressed and I never expected to be in August. It’s usually such a lazy month, especially in Barcelona or Paris where come the 1st, the cities swiftly empty out as everyone runs from work to the beaches for a few weeks. I, on the other hand? I’m wedged here for now between a mountain of work projects and an exhaustion I can’t shake. Like most of my existence, from my emotions to energy, I seem to operate cyclically in that I’m either happy and enthusiastic or rock bottom, past zero and deep in an inspiration-less rut. So today, I come to you dressed sharp; work armor, a shield of sorts ; yet worn with motivation blunt and dulled down to dust. I crave sleep in a way coffee cannot fix. Last night I was walking home, almost too droopy to place one foot in front of the other. I’ve been speaking in monotones or usually without anything to say at all. The gym is an endeavour that cripples me, as soon as the endorphin rush dissolves, so do I, into the sofa or the floor by the front door. It frustrates me that blogging is generally perceived as an easy job. Now, I’m not the most popular influencer but I hustle. I work hard for the money I make. And the profits this website turn? I consider them an honour, a privilege to not be stuck behind a desk and underneath a boss. And so, I’ll continue to tie my fatigue up tight, in the form of a belted jumpsuit or the laces on my running shoes or a 7 am iphone swipe for my alarm. The alternative is rather unfathomable to me ; to not work, to not push harder to not want more are impossibilities, the desire for progression is as part of me as my nose or eyes are, without it, I wouldn’t be me. So tired is how I shall be. Let’s just hope I maintain the energy to dress the part, I don’t think anyone will hire me in sweatpants, which actually happens to be one of the many fantasies tucked inside my dream job as a writer. I could wear horrible clothes and no one would care.