Rambling

Four 12-hour days in a row, and I am bone tired.
But I'm not done.  There's more; there always is, isn't there?

I wondered once if anyone would understand.  There are a few, but they're hard to make out, because they're lost in a flood of endless energy and emotive drama.  It's kind of a life high, where half of your time you're too happy to do much other than grin 'til your cheeks hurt, and the other half, you're so miserable, you just brace yourself for the next wave of insanity.

All I want to do is go to sleep.  And I can't, because there's more to be done.  I never remember my dreams when I'm tired, which is fine by me.  In fact, I prefer it that way, because after a few minutes of my waking dreams, I have some bizarre nightmare that inspires me to write for hours after.

Then again, I don't exactly have time for that.  I'm still working.
And working.
And working.

My feet hurt.  And since when do we need relish in a Frito Pie?  I miss my books.  Who has last seen my squirrel?  He needs a bath.
AND those roses and lilies in the backyard need to be cut.  Like, today.

Oh, well.  I'll just have to settle for working some more.  It's not like it hurts to get paid.