Not really much to say. It’s the weekend. A slow day. Not much going on.
A faded hope matches the mood of a dull morning commute.
I watch the quiet recharge, observing myself from a distance, even as I game. A weekend passes. I’m better for it.
The silent journey to work, a time shared with anonymous companions that I see each day I take this transit. I wonder if any of them recognise me, or even notice their fellow passengers?
A short story, a message to myself, found again by accident. Written a year ago. It is a message of hope, written in an uncertain time.
The second weekend of February. Clothed in red and white, it is a pretender. It claims to be the herald of romance, but it is not. It is, instead, the harbinger of emotional torture.
An unpleasant day in the office. I know I am just a meat sack, but today I really felt it.
An adventure into a world on the edge of society, to a place where the usual rules don’t apply. A place of free conversation, where people can be true to themselves.
Sheltering at home from the storm, I think back to the night before.
The weekend begins with an unpleasant task, an overdue part of the regular chores.