By Louisa Benatovich
We don’t know when it became too much, but it did. It’s unbearable now. Every bit of it.
We are itching to say goodbye, aching for it to be over. Every morning is a battle between duty and desire.
We have played the game, rolling the dice and moving our pawns accordingly. The black-and-white checkers of the finish line are visible in the distance.
The exhaustion is marrow-deep and everywhere. We try for the last leg, but we are tired—the kind of tiredness that doesn’t make sense for our youth.
An autoimmune sort of lethargy, this is an accumulation of years of mind-games and emotional aerobics.
We are tired of the same tiled halls, the same broken sink and the same faces every day.
We are tired of exams and review and stress.
We are tired of being told to appreciate the lasts, of being questioned about our melancholy juxtaposed with the excitement for our future.
We are tired of having to fill out papers and repeat the same thing over and over again.
We are tired of looking back and wondering if dreams will be kept alive when we are gone.
We are tired of binders and books, pens and pencils, dividers and division.
We are too tired to focus, to appreciate any of the good that exists.
We are tired of working nights and days and afternoons, at jobs, in class and at home.
We have pushed ourselves so hard to be well-rounded that we now feel flat. It is easier to ignore the impending finality than to face it.
We are tired of the movies played to placate us, tired of the pre-Armageddon busy work.
We are tired of waiting for grades, maneuvering the same teachers.
We are tired of driving the same road every single day.
We can’t remember dates or attend last parties.
We can barely be civil.
We are tired of each other, of pretending.
We are ready, ready to go.