My beautiful love,
The word weekend has come to assume terrible connotations in my book. I have always despised Sundays and now Iâve been fortunate enough to receive another day that I can loathe just as much. They are all the same. Without you, without you, without you. I spent some part of it indulging my recently re-discovered creative pursuit of collaging. I just put random words together on a page. Somehow, it manages to convey a message of some sort which is usually pretty accurate of my current predicament.
It is life at its cruel and ironic best that I get 2 days off- sometimes less if Iâm working- on my own to do my own thing and cannot spend any of it being with the person I love, nor communicating with ___. Itâs pretty tragic, isnât it? The feeling of… unfairness, leaves me fuming and I’m just an awful little shit to be around. I try to be apologetic but Iâm not sincere and completely transparent.
I spend just too much time sleeping because sleep has always been an escape. I compensate for the guilt I feel about missing a perfectly good weekend by telling myself I needed the rest. That might have a smidge of truth considering how late I get to sleep on weekdays. But I know at heart, I sleep so much on weekends because it means less time awake thinking, remembering and knowing. The fact is, Iâm here, youâre there and thereâs an entire world between us. I can’t run away from that, as much as I’d like to. There is only so much you can sleep.
If there were a way to just fall sleep and wake only when you came back, I’d shut my eyes now and wait aslumber. I love you more as each day begins and ends with the promise of you somewhere in the distance.
Yours,
m.
part-broken, part-whole 