Monday, April 14, 2014

This waiting game.

Last night I slept soundly. I slept through the Monday morning, past the sunrise, past the rush hour blaring outside my windows, past everything ungodly in the morning. I started at around two in the morning and decided to finally accept the consciousness at 12, and even then I wasn’t ready to get up. I finally did get up at around one in the afternoon. It had been a really slow phase, like I was waiting for a jolt; it felt like I was the only person in the world entitled to wait on a Monday morning, and no one waits on Mondays.

I did this because I had nothing waiting for me. A Monday morning free from the rush, and I was the only person not doing it, I was decidedly on slo-mo, thoughts and all. It was like a push-button setting made for me and I was the only one. The. Only. One. While everybody was at work, carrying out orders for an empire, I was in bed, slouched forward, craning my neck, staring at the wall facing the foot of my bed, endlessly trying to plan something, but failing to have something materialize. This start-fail exclusively happened in my bedroom, in my bed, with me in my underwear from last night, surrounded by the geography from the many hours past: wrinkled sheets, a blanket spread-midway, damp pools of saliva, and three pillows as margins to the chalk-outlined sleep scenery. In this scene, the only question that gets an answer is whether I should sleep some more, because what else is there? Work emails? Annoying.

So what else was there? There was nothing else. No one was available. It was a Monday morning. What was to come? Many things hatched this morning. Again, a Monday morning. It felt like an especially fast part of the day, because it was a Monday morning, and in contrast, my life felt especially slow. I was a contrast to the pace –a pace I used to be in tune with. Just last week I was alive with the prospect of doing something, practically anything, and no matter what time I got home, I was ready for something. It didn’t matter then if there really was something, only that I was ready.

And then this sabbatical sort of thing happened and I’m here, my insides quickly accepting the vacant week ahead. I want so badly to do something, but there is no intensity in that need. Because the passport renewal I need to go to next week is the only thing standing in between me and my work, and until I have a renewed passport, I will not be able to work, even for just office duties.

I want so badly to have a short term goal for the next few days. I have nothing planned, except for the renewal appointment, and then nothing, nothing. Not a thing. And now I am typing without even thinking and the people might be thinking I am just pretend typing but hey I am really typing something.

Not working might have driven me closer to the edge and I am sorry this is incredibly sad and stupid. Gosh.

Why do I even bother chronicling this? I am being unfair to the days when things have actually happened, and were good. I am just mumbling about not doing anything.

I am mostly worried, yes. But maybe also I am berating myself silently for miscalculating the date of my passport renewal. So yes I might be mad at myself for failing to do something a child would have had no hard time with. Was it my choice? No, of course not and also this is why I am fuming. I wasn’t neglectful, I even planned it, and I just counted the months backwards incorrectly. I should have renewed a month ago. See this is how I find myself so easy to hate: I overlook details, and now I am freaking out.

To offset my stupidity I chose to have the renewal rushed, but the date [see above], is just too late. I tried looking for people who work in the passport renewal place, but no one I know knows anyone who does. And the ones who have had gone through renewal before, they say that the date I have is okay. It’s the earliest possible. So I’m here waiting, without anything urgent, without flying hours and ergo, no money.

But the thing with money is, I do not want to worry about it like any ordinary working person. I want to brush it off and if I should scrimp, so be it, and it wouldn’t be a problem:  I am resourceful. Maybe. This hasn’t been proven so it might happen or fail, but I like to think money is just a thing not all people need, and not all people should work for it. Maybe I want something that makes me happy not only by making me rich. How noble. And how hip.

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