I'm going to try to translate a portuguese poem by the famous author Fernando Pessoa, more specifically its heteronym Álvaro de Campos. In my opinion, when you read this poem you can really feel his tiredness. He is so sad and frustated and that makes him tired.

'what's in me is mostly tiredness-
not this or that,
not even everything or nothing:
just tiredness, itself,

the subtlety of unfeeling sensations,
the violent passions for nothing,
the intense love for the supposed someone,
all of those things-
those and what is lacking in them forever-
all of this makes a tiredness,
this tiredness,

there's no doubt that there's someone who loves the infinite
there's no doubt that there's someone who desires the impossible
there's no doubt that there's someone who doesn't want anything-
three types of idealists, and I'm none of them:
because I love infinitely the finite,
because I desire impossibly the possible,
because I want everything, or just a little bit more, if that's possible,
or even if it's not…

and the result?
for them the lived or dreamed life,
for them the dreamed or lived dream,
for them the average between everything and nothing, which means, this…
for me just a big, a deep,
and, ah with what infertile happiness, tiredness,
a supremely supremely tiredness,
mely, mely, mely,