Too Tired to Live

I am too tired to live, but not tired enough to disappear. And perhaps that is the punishment: to keep breathing when the soul has already begged for silence. I carry my days like a labourer carries a rusted machine — without pride, without hope, simply because it still works. There are mornings when getting out of bed feels like a betrayal of my own body. The world demands haste, when everything inside me only longs for rest. I do not want to die. I simply want this pain to stop demanding so much from me. I want a night without thoughts, a room where the heart makes no noise, a little peace before tomorrow comes knocking again to collect the rent for my existence. Perhaps living is this: not defeating the darkness, but sitting inside it and waiting for some small light to have forgotten to abandon us. So tonight, I do not promise happiness. I promise only to stay. One more night. One more breath. One more small act of resistance against everything that tried to convince me that I was already lost.