At some point I started counted my life in weeks rather than days. Days that blur into each other, with lines that are difficult to distinguish. I wake up at the same time, go to work at the same time, go to lunch at the same time, go home at the same time.
I spend the whole week waiting for a weekend that is over before it started. I tell myself, "Work hard, play hard" and then spend my weekend nights living it. Monday comes with a vengeance, and I'm suddenly at my desk in a hazy self-induced chemical imbalance. Staring off into nothing, wondering what this new week will bring, and knowing that I don't really need to wonder at all.
I'm not sure if its the routine itself or the nature of my routine. I know i've been told I have a problem being content where I'm at. Supposedly, life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react to it.
I've blamed it on my job more than a few times. It's kind of funny how bad I wanted this only a few months ago, and how much I would give now to make it go away. A drone for corporate leaders who may never know my name, and will certainly never care.
There must be something more. At some point I will have to demand a purpose and ruffle the feathers meant for flying. On paper, i'm exactly where I should be. But paper is 2-D and it's impossible to quantify the dimensions of reality.
Just another case of the mondays...