There are very few people I know who look forward to going back to work Monday morning. What is it about Mondays that you wake up with a sinking feeling in your heart, you pick fault with the tossed omelet on your plate and you snap at your wife, with whom you had shared a candlelight dinner by the sea only twenty four hours back. Between Sunday night and the next day you transform into an irritable, unsure entity, forever on the edge.
The fault does not lie in the stars but that we cannot shake off the feeling that we are not the masters of our own time. We are all trapped in the week to week syndrome, where we drudge our way through the first five days, then try to stuff our entire bucket list of desires in the next two and close to late evening on Sunday we hopelessly climb into bed dissatisfied, dreading the start of the next day.
So what really goes wrong? Is it that we plod through the week or that we lead frenetic lives at weekend, both of which end up leaving us drained, emptied of energy. We look around us and see the world go past us, vibrant, young, and full of promise and we wonder why only we have been marked out for misery. Or is it that we ourselves have created a world of desire and expectation and however hard we might try we can never end up being fulfilled?
This is the world I created
The fighter pilot and I both scrambling for duty night and day
I sit in airless rooms drinking stale coffee
Thinking of the sun rolling up the sky
The clatter of the keyboard next and in all cubicles
I walk back Friday night to the weekend trap
A night of drinking and getting up late
And waking up to the dread of coming Monday
Of airless rooms, stale coffee and rows and rows of same cubicles.