It’s 5am and I’m considering dragging myself out of bed for a fifth time since 10:30pm. The thought of it hurts my body in a way only the very sleep deprived know how. Every inch of tissue feels like it’s had it’s own sleeping tablet; clogged in the cells, lodged. The ends of the body can’t be reached through a habitual morning stretch; they feel dull – unwilling to switch on like an ignition refusing to fire.

My limbs are the heaviest they’ve ever been. They will not be lifted from the warmth of the covers: the fog of an early morning dream is weighing them down. My head pounds – not with the affliction of alcohol: it’s the endless minutes spent awake in the dead of night that cause my brain to weep.

And yet, there is another day to face. Another piece of toast to butter, another load of clothes to wash. There are too many phone calls to field, too many problems to solve and not enough time to breathe. Everything continues as it does each day whilst my body and brain quietly suffer, firing not quite as quickly with emotions that aren’t quite reasonable.

The gaze of my spouse mirrors my own, the fatigue is tangible and visible and it wounds us both. There is nothing to do but to accept the forward propulsion, and hope for salvation on another day.