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?