When I tell you I am tired, will you believe me?
I don’t mean the sort of tired that is solved by getting a good night’s sleep. I don’t mean the sort of weary that can be resolved by visiting a good friend or watching cooking videos on facebook. I don’t mean the sort of fatigue that you can sort out with a day spent watching bad TV, wrapped in a duvet, knitting and eating chocolate.
I mean the sort of tired that I don’t know how to fix. I mean the sort of tired that leaves you wondering about everything you ever did, characterized by fits and starts of what seem to be brilliant thoughts which fizzle into all the ways you hate yourself and every life choice you have made.
The sort of tired, weary and woebegone that you can’t fix. The sort that needs time and sunshine and good food and rest of a sort I have not had in the last two years.
I have one individual paper and one group paper. I am about 8,000 words and one final presentation away from being done my MBA.
I don’t hate learning, I don’t hate academia, but I am done with this particular degree. I am done with the frameworks, the models, the rush to solutions and the workman like drudgery and grind that is a business degree.
I am done.
Except for the fact I am not.
My boarding school chose a curious sort of motto. Most school mottos are Latin and they have some sort of sense of victory or duty or aspiration. Mine? Plain English.
“The end of the matter is better than its beginning.”
There’s not a lot aspiration in that. It actually seems like a pretty blunt and declarative sentence. I might even call it presumptuous. Is the end always better than the beginning? That implies a sort of teleological narrative. It requires me to believe that the whole of humanity strives toward a beautiful and complete finish. Or at least that I strive to that.
8,000 words. The end is after that.
And I am weary. Exhausted. Also woebegone.
I have no idea how I will find the reserves to get it done. It’s not hard, it’s not even a bit past my grasp.
I do not care about the last of it while simultaneously knowing I must care.
I can be any sort of tired in 9 days.
It’s not the end.