I’m currently home-alone in the fiancee’s home, waiting for her twice-a-month four-hour sentence at work to end. I’m also currently in two minds about whether the time I have alone is time to be savoured or time to be passed. Savoured because I’m alone, and can pretty much do what I’d like to do. Passed, because I’m alone, and have pretty much nothing I’d like to do.
I’d spent the better part of the week anticipating the long-weekend I’m currently “enjoying”. Now that that it’s here, I find it a little disappointing that it doesn’t seem to be bringing me the relaxation and freedom-from-worry/anxiety/stress and unadulterated bliss it had promised. Rather, I’m feeling a sort of dull dread in anticipation of the coming work week. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that the promise of the weekend was really fulfilled in the days before the weekend, with the weekend itself giving me the feeling that its joyous qualities had been hollowed out.
I find that my relation to time is such that I’m always living a couple of days ahead of myself. In a typical week, Thursday feels to me a little like Saturday (Friday’s so close to Saturday it’s essentially Saturday), while Saturday feels like a Monday (in the same vein as Thursday, Satuday’s so close to Monday it’s almost like Monday). Time is relative… how can it be any other way?