On The Floor

Burnout. Really big burnout. And what can you do about it? A lot.

Time, time, time galore. So much time I can have on a Thursday night. All the time in the world that I can use to finish my assignments, study for the biology test or even practice the flute.

But by the time I walk into the door of my house, I don’t feel right. I should be wanting to do these things. It’s like I’m walking towards my prize, but my legs become stiff like boards. I’m reaching for the gold, but my hands freeze like ice. I’m jumping up to it, but it’s miles into the stratosphere and I'm just a fish in the water.

I took Mom and Dad’s advice and took a break. It felt like I was partaking in a foreign custom. It felt uncomfortable, novel and somewhat ridiculous. So screamed the voice in my head, “get busy, get productive, you lazy lug.” Genuinely, shut up, voice. The voice only dropped to a whisper. It never went away. Now my mind was doing hopscotch. How about a few cartwheels here and there?

How about that history assignment that you could improve on?

Is it not good enough?

But you want to go above and beyond, don’t you? Isn’t that what you wanted?

No. Too tired.

Excuses, excuses. Get it done. Work today, rest in peace.

I’ve worked. Where is my peace?

. . .

I’VE WORKED! WHY CAN’T YOU HEAR ME? WHEN DO I GET MY PEACE, I SAID. COME ON, WHEN? WHEN?! WHEN?!!!

And now it’s spinning. I can’t stop it. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. No. Just stop. Please. Please!

Now looking in front of me was tiring. I see the wall. It’s supposed to be a pristine shade of white, but it’s looking annoyingly gray today. I look to my left, and there’s my bed. I should be throwing myself into the soft mattress and wrap myself in the darkness of the covers. I don’t want to get up. But I don’t want to be on the floor. Looking around is now too tiring.

I close my eyes and see only obscurity. Why is this so exhausting?

I think I’m done with my break. But something feels . . . off. I walk over to my flute and pick up my music folder to start practicing. No? How about that history project? Not that either? What about the English assignment that I just started today? Then if not any of those, then that must mean it’s time to review for that biology test that is happening in two days.

In the worst possible scenario, reading should help. No, I don’t want to do that.

I sit on the carpet again. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even want to sit here and marinate in air and thoughts. I scream. I can’t breathe anymore.

Salt and heat sting my eyes like a thousand wasps. It's all over my face. It’s all over my neck. It dampens my hair like sweat. Heavy footsteps down the stairs. A warm arm around my shoulders.

“Go have a shower. Rest.”

I wobble up the stairs. The bathroom is filled with the orange glow of sunset. The floor tiles are cold under my hands.

The shower pelts on my skin and hair like rain. It blends with my tears until I don’t know if I’m crying anymore. The salt dilutes in the water and I can’t taste it in my mouth.

There’s a spring green bar of soap in front of me. I rub in in circles on my skin. White foam like the sea bubbles on my arms, my legs, my chest, my stomach. I watch it all wash down the drain in a spiral. The mist smells like mint.

I’m on my bed, wrapped up in a towel. My hair is still damp. I’m empty and full at the same time.

I go to my brown desk and pick up a black pen. There’s a notebook waiting for me. I’m not writing for school now. I’m writing for something else.

Time, time, time galore.