Exhausted

It’s one of those Saturdays. A day marked by a silent, suffocating defeat, clinging to the air like an unnamed crime you still carry. I’m sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling, its blankness reflecting the hollow image of myself. What do you see there? A man undone? No. Not undone—worn through. Exhausted. The word tastes metallic on my tongue. Am I exhausted by what? By everything. By nothing. By the senseless weight pressing against my ribs like a dull blade.

In the other room, there’s a woman. Alive, vibrant. Beautiful in a way that scrapes against the edges of the soul. She’s out there, and I’m here—trapped in this tomb of a mattress. My body feels heavier than it should, as though some primal force is pinning me down, whispering: Don’t you dare get up. Don’t you dare face her? She’s a fire burning in a house without doors, and I am a man made of dry wood.

Cowardice. The word comes too quickly, and I hate how it fits. But that’s what this is—a quiet, shameful retreat into the only fortress I know—myself. I think about her bright and unrestrained laugh filling the space between these walls. And I wonder how many people are out there, trapped like me in their bedrooms, afraid of the world beyond the hallway. Are we all this afraid of the raw, blistering heat of presence? Of intimacy? Perhaps the world is just a patchwork of closed doors and covered windows, each of us hiding under invisible blankets, praying we won’t have to truly see—or be seen.

They talk about power. Politicians. Writers. The fools on television. They say the word as if they understand it. As if power is anything more than a polished shield for the weak. True power isn’t conquest or command. True power is rising and dragging yourself out of this bed, through this hallway, and facing her. It’s not glory; it’s the simplicity of showing up. And yet, here I am, hiding.

The ceiling stares back at me like a judge, cold and indifferent. I imagine others—men and women—lying like this, waiting for the suffocating weight of existence to pass, dreaming of a courage they will never claim. How many of us are waiting for a knock on the door? For some phantom savior to walk in, take us by the shoulders, and shake us into life? But no one comes. No one ever comes. All that’s left is the bed. This damn bed.

And still, we stay here. Hiding beneath the covers, pretending this is the comfort we deserve.

P.S. — Forgive me, my love, for being too cowardly to meet you where you are and for not rising beneath my weight. I’m leaving you alone this weekend. For not being the man you waited all week to meet.