The Sceam

There are times when it makes sense to cry, but then there are other times with the tiredness factor takes over the emotional regulation. When you're so tired that you can barely see straight, your vision is blurring with itchiness, and anything shy of ideal is enough to make you crack. And then it hits you like being pegged with a medicine ball in the stomach. It's enough to make you bend over and cry. To sink down onto your knees and feel the dry skin dig into the rough asphalt of the road. To fall back until you're lying on your back on the road, trying to stare at the colorless sky through the tears that run down either side of your cheeks. And you know you should get up, close the car door, and make your way inside. But you just stay down, one hand hanging on your backpack strap like a lifeline, your whole arm dangles limp and useless. It's all the stupid stuff, but it's knocked you off your feet. And the wind tickles your hair across your wet face. Such a pathetic sight, you know it. The world calls you up and onward, but it is so hard to move.

Done