But there is none for the wicked.
none for the sick, the poor, the needy.
none for the restless.
Every night I lay my burdens down and sleep shallowly, skimming the surface of unconsciousness while vivid and fluttering dreams race through my mind.
And every morning I am awakened by a knock on the door, and my burdens are thrust upon me once more.
My very marrow aches, and I am tired of being a tragedy. I am tired of crying and aching and tired of tiredness. I need to find, no I will find, the strength necessary to continue. Is this what it means to be an adult? To carry these burdens, to long to cut off your own nose to find rest, with no end in sight?
There is no end in sight.