Minutes are all that separate me from falling into the embrace of the welcoming weekend.
Weekend - the light at the end of the tunnel after a week of groping around, feeling around, and wandering about aimlessly in the labyrinth of this unconstructive employment.
The weekend provides me an exit from my increasingly perpetual spells of despondency; a despondency brought about by the gradual realisation that all semblance of my self-worth is slipping away with each agonising day I remain stuck in the still waters of occupational stasis; losing my way in the labyrinthine drudgery of this vile serpent called malaise, and confronted by mediocre homo sapiens and having my wings clipped - creativity is not encouraged. No, it's not.
The weekend is my comfort zone from the uncomfortable zone of my unhappy comfort zone of an aimless and unsatisfying employment. Oxymorons abound in the preceding sentence but darn logic, rationale and syntax!
Like I seek solace in my writing, weekends provide a conduit for me to disappear into the mindlessness of unpressured living, not having to justify lugging home a hefty pay check for doing nada, zilch and nought.
Groundhog days, weeks, months and soon it will be a year.
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