The fatigue I feel doesn’t come from work itself, but from continuity – the unbroken line of being the one who keeps things from falling apart.
I fix what others forget. I bridge the gaps they leave. I absorb the cost of systems that depend on me to hold. And when everything briefly steadies, there’s no applause, only the next thing waiting.

I keep writing, not to share or prove, but to stay awake to myself. Observation has become a kind of oxygen. I name what’s heavy so it doesn’t calcify. I watch how people drift – in conversation, in attention, in promise – and I try not to take it personally.

The week passes like a low hum: electrical worries, lesson fatigue, dogs in the dark, a flicker of humour, a sigh.
It’s not heroic. It’s not tragic. It’s maintenance – the invisible work of keeping things alive, even when nobody’s watching.