Other people have relaxed weekends filled with rainbows, laughter, smiling faces, restaurants, sports, cakes, drinks, and all those other nice things. They post an endless stream of photos recording their lovely lives to Facebook and Instagram – like some sort of distorted advertising campaign for their life. When they do it, I start wondering what they are hiding.
Anyway. I think that’s vague enough.
I’ve been out all day. Now I am home. Sunday has almost gone. Tomorrow I’ll be back in the office, watching the clock, hoping the phone doesn’t ring, and wishing I had an endless supply of chocolate chip cookies to go with the coffee I’m drinking once again.
I can’t help feeling that most of my life has become a game of “the floor is lava”, where any interaction with others causes my trousers to set on fire. The only obvious solution seems to be avoiding everybody and everything for a while.
If you want me, you’ll find me sitting on my bed with the bedroom door closed, reading a book in splendid silence. No children arguing, nobody complaining I haven’t done something or other, and nobody asking anything of me. Of course before I can do that I’ll have to tidy the damn room up.
What’s that thing we tell ourselves when the level of the lava starts to raise? That tomorrow is another day? Maybe it is. But the lava will still be there, won’t it.