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This is a column I wrote last summer – it pretty much sums up what I feel like at this very moment.
I’m so tired.
It’s like… like all the air has left my lungs, the way it does a balloon that was forgotten in a dark corner after a five year old’s birthday party. Not with a pop nor a bang, but with a slow, inevitable wheeze.
Like I’ve been awake for months.
That’s almost the case. When I get this tired I can’t even muster up enough energy to sleep. Last night I thought I’d succeeded – until I woke up at 3:37am from the kind of nightmare that makes going back to sleep impossible.
It’s the kind of fatigue that overpowers it all. I lose track of time, feel it slipping through my fingers. This morning I took the communter train into Stockholm, finally on the subway I passed the station I was supposed to get off at – twice in a row. I got on the train, blinked, and several stops had already passed by.
That’s how tired I am.
Nothing new about this. The same thing every time I pressure myself a little bit too hard, a little bit too long. Like when you flex a muscle with all your might until the lactic acid kicks in, the muscle starts shivering, shaking, cramping; and when you finally let it relax it feels like you will never, ever in your entire life be able to use it again.
This is what it feels like. Inside my whole body, my soul, all the way through.
I don’t want to work, I don’t want to eat, clean, get dressed or wash my hair. I do it, because I have to, but I don’t want to.
All I want is to flee to Hogwarts.
Only there am I safe.
I have no idea how many times I’ve read Joanne Kathleen Rowling’s books about the young wizard with the lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. A lot. Enough times to make every sentence feel like home.
When my Ronnie is done making fun of me for reading “children’s books”, he always asks: but don’t you already know exactly what’s going to happen?
He can’t seem to understand that this is the whole point.
Each time I open the books, I’m sucked straight into the adventures. I’m pulled into the story, drawn by force, losing myself in everything from complicated homework to the battle against evil. I laugh, cry, get nauseous from all the butterflies going nuts in my stomach as I get closer to the life-or-death fights. But whatever turns the story might take, I never have to fear. I know it will all be okay in the end. And right there, in the safety of that insight, I can finally rest.
But the most spectacular thing about the Harry Potter books has to be the amount of pages. No matter how impossible it seems to take on life in this desperatly non-magical world – when I have plowed through all seven books, suddenly enough time has passed that the worst is over. I find myself waking up in the morning, eating breakfast, washing my hair and sitting down at my desk to work. Not because I have to, but because I want to.
It never fails. I have my suspicions there might be magic involved.
Now I have to get back to my book. Harry is just about to battle a fire-breathing Hungarian Horntail.
I know exactly how it’s going to end.