Words to be faced, thought to be written. I miss the moment of writing (or type) without much thought. I scribble on the perfectly lined paper of my notebook. I work around the borders. Underline underline underline.
From Sunday till monday you face the screen or paper. Sometimes I wish the world would just sloooow down so that I could catch up. And not feel so out of place.
I hate Mondays. There’s always a feeling of foreboding.
Tuesdays are so-so. I remember sunny side ups. Tuesdays feel yellow.
Wednesdays are fine. Mid-week is good. I think of barbecue and red.
Thursdays. The day I go to somewhere.
Fridays. Who doesn’t love Fridays?
Saturdays are never peaceful.
Sunday is tricky.
Week after week after week. Same old. Then, there’s everything else in between, in no particular order. And sometimes you wonder if you’ll ever feel as giddy or amazed or as fulfilled as the first time, when you first "fell" in love or took one hell of a photograph or even talked a geniune talk. Sometimes I begin to doubt, because it’s all the same. Repeat repeat again and again. It’s an obsessive-compulsive state. It’s an obsessive- compulsive world. Yeah.
And the obsessive compulsive world transformed into a daily words.
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