She was tired. And tired she would remain for the rest of the day.
It was the same most days, but she supposed it was partly her obsession with getting 6 hours of solid labor clocked before she broke for a late lunch, some time after the sun had angled the shadows more or less 45 degrees.
Hakim had been playing on the couch, but he stopped, rested his palm on the strings and watched her.
“You okay?” She looked over and smiled, a grim one without teeth.
“Yep. Fine,” she said.
“Uh huh.” He waited, she turned back to stare out the window in front of her computer. “All right, I mean . . . okay.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He was still staring at her. She faced him again.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Really. This is what I wanted, I’m doing it. This is good.”
He nodded, carefully. “Right. Are you sure it’s good for you?”
She opened her mouth to dismiss him, of course it was good—then shut it again. Was it? She’d never considered the question before. It was what every artist wanted: to do their art full time. To make it their job, their career. To fill their waking life with making, and not have the drudgery of a meaningless livelihood. But she was becoming perpetually exhausted.
It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Art was supposed to energize you, lift you up and give you wings, set your soul on fire. But she was doing it, and she just felt burnt out.
But then, she also felt free. She felt a deep satisfaction with her life and herself. Maybe it was just something else that was off. The scales had to shift.
“I think we should walk over to the lake,” she said. Hakim stood up and reached for her hand.