The scene outside is turning to gray, six hours before another day. The feeling of being stuck comes on again like an expected refrain, and as it lingers I wonder if I'll go home singing it, watching the clock tumble digital numbers then it's 3 am again and I have to put the current book I am reading or turn the TV off and try to sleep off the song, thinking that it's another friday.
And that song plays even if I had somehow managed to do something creative, something outside of work, or some other sort of lipputian sources of transcendence. Things just enough to make me feel somehow that this is not all a dream. I have to admire Sisyphus during these times. Though that doesn't really translate to the Myth; Sisyphus happy? really.
Now, if I can just find someone who I can converse with right now, with or without the beer, a little mindfuck for these Sisyphean times. Show of hands, anyone?
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blur reality for a while.
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