quiet rivers

Depending on how work chews up your time at the work-place, you either are too busy to notice how time flies by or too idle and you start mooning for the week-end to come faster. The latter activity is mostly notable when you’ve got spare cash to spend, a party to go to, a holiday you can have fun planning for. The past week was an ‘idle’ one at work, and so the days seemed inordinately longer, and the wait seemed to tighten up like a stressed-out longissimus muscle. I vowed the week-end would be noteworthy…

Come Saturday, I ‘accidently’ drank one beer too many at a pre-Mother’s-Day party, a beverage I don’t particularly care for, and I, much earlier than I’d planned, eventually made my way home to sink down into the depths of sleep and bed like a drowned whale, wasting the rest of the day in a leaden slumber I could have done without. I woke up in the middle of the night, padded barefoot to the kitchen for a cool glass of water, swore Sunday would be really special, then wobbled my way back to bed. Disgustingly dreamless.

Morning found me taking a walk around the meandering asphalt snaking around the lake at the back of the house, squinting my eyes almost shut everytime the sun bounced slivers of itself off the water. The walk only improved into a jog as an escape from those mocking sunbeams, and one round became a mile, then two, then a racing, rasping gasp that finally came to a stop when I bonelessly fell down onto the grass; spent like a discarded rag.

I rolled over until my body found a patch of shade, and then found myself on my back. Raggedy Andy staring at the blue sky. Mindless. Spiritless. After a while, the earth, too, became my bed; the grass, the top-sheet to cradle the empty shell of my sensorium. My pores were open, but not to the nuances of the day, or that moment and place. I slept.

It’s Sunday night now, and I sit here in front of my computer, unexplainably dreading going back to work tomorrow morning. Why? I have no idea. Or if I had, I don’t care to speculate about it.

Some days go by like that; without anything to justify my existence, no explanation for the glittermote sparkling in the borrowed light of a sun. Some days, you are just part of the scenery. Rudderless. Insignificant. I feel all sorts of guilty, just sinking into those times.

Tried surfing a while ago. Armand forwarded a couple more sites to check out. One was this, a site for repressed vandals, and a 54-word challenge for a bored would-be writer. It’s probably on par with the idea of bloggers meeting up to compare site notes and belly-buttons. I must have been really bored the other day, because I even signed up for the last. Sorry, I’ve no plans whatsoever of showing up.

Sigh* the short view can be so hard, so dreary, if only for its normalcy.

But here I am, all the same, writing, talking to myself. Giving you the bad, beside the good. And feeling downright sleepy, again. Come wake me up!

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