One More Week

One more week.  It is the little white lie I tell myself every weekend.  It is a rare Sunday when I do get to sit at home, curl up on the couch, and read a good book.  One more week of late nights, email overload, and an impossible-to-clear to-do list.  If I could only get through that, I would be free.  Free to spend my evenings reading.  My weekends writing.  The sunny days walking in nature.  One more week to clear the workload off my desk and then I could start living.

That week never comes.  It never ends.  I worked all but three days last month.  I walked in nature once.  “I love my job”.  I am not sure if I love my life.  Too many flights.  Too many meetings.  Not enough time for myself.  Not enough time to forge deep connections with people.  But today, today is a good day.  Curled up on the couch.  Immersed in a fictionalised version of New York City.  Watching the rain fall.  Unsure of when I will get to do this again.  Longing for a life that is more than work.  One more week.  And then what?

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