Wanting to Want

When I was in middle school, my brother drove me around a lot.
Technically, for the entirety of my life, my brothers drove me around a lot. Not even necessarily for my own purposes; I was just very portable and someone had to make sure I wasn't left running around falling in empty pool shells (again).

Middle school, though, was another chapter to my angsty growing up phase (it lasted most of years 8-21).

Chon always asked me how I was.
I always said, "Tired."

Once, on my way to somewhere--it was probably Haley's house, but along the far end of 91st street--he gave up and asked me if I was ever going to stop being tired.

In fairness, we found out months later that I'd had mono for most of my seventh grade year. Never missed a day of school or swim practice either (read: I was an exhausted punk but at least I was determined).

I think about that interaction often, though, because often I ask myself the same thing.

Was I always like this?

Was my college extroversion and GO GO GO nature a hiatus from my hibernative temperament?
Was my year of depressive sleep and darkness enough to suck away years of future waking?

I'm not unhappy. Actually, I'm very content.
But shouldn't I want more from life than naps?

At a certain point, you begin to wonder if this is a phase or if this is your life.
Because it feels as though no amount of sleeping or working out or joy or attempts to read and write can pull me back up to my former capacities to engage and devour language and pour my own language out.