I'm sick of Sundays.
They are supposed to be so good. You know, sleep in, lazy brunch, big mugs of good coffee. So far, usually so good. But then comes the afternoon and I'm browsing my favourite websites, reading a novel, looking out over the sea, enjoying my solitude. And I want to write something. And I can't.
And I'm painfully aware of the fact that in a few hours, my precious weekend is over and it's back to work. I sit here, wanting to be creative and not capable of it. Going for a walk puts me in a worse mood, at least when the weather is bad ( as it always is in February ). Meeting a friend ruins the rare me-time that I so desperately need. Nothing entertains me, I just want to MAKE SOMETHING.
Suddenly, the wonderful Sunday is just an empty, dull stretch of time. The clock ticking down towards Monday morning.
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