Pounding down the racetrack
I don't want to become the textbook Monday-hating Friday-loving productive good citizen, but it seems that the working world is thick with such momentum. I heard a sigh from the other end of the office yesterday, a wistful exhalation of "I wish tomorrow was Friday".
Daily "grind" is inaccurate. I propose an amendment of one of the following: crush, tyranny, disintegration, pulverization.
I'm not an automaton (yet), but my posts of late reflect the nature of my free time these days: terse, breathless snippets of a crammed day. Weekends feel like exhalation, as though I spend the week taking in short sharp breaths without ever breathing them out. By Friday I'm gasping for air - even though I'm suffocating on it.
Then, Saturday: exhale. Release. Deflation. Redefinition.
They say you need air to survive, apparently.