Broken

After my first return to work from the extended weekend, I had to face yet another weekend. Typically I would look forward for the weekend, and when it comes, I would indulge myself in the sins of the universe and wake up on Monday with a hangover — perfect start for another week of toil.

Strangely enough though, for the last few and maybe more than a few weekends I haven’t anticipated the retreat much. They have slowly grown from being the most exciting days of the week into a batch of horrid long waits for civilization.

I practically live in a muddle apart from town. Although it only takes me twenty minutes to seek animated life, it takes enormous efforts through mammoth potholes and dusty side roads to achieve that sheer glimpse of haven.

Perhaps my will is drained, as it’s been for the last eight years, and somehow I’ve pulled back into the anti-social side of me, much to an extent where its effects are near self-destructive. There’s no more merry-go-round teenage years left in me, in fact most people of my time have eternally consecrated themselves in pairs and are now breathing life into their little versions as my weeks pass by.

I’m stuck in a prison of my self-image, and I simply can’t liberate myself from who I thought I was. It would take me a few rounds of collective synaptic incidents to realize and accept my current self, doomed as it is, a separated vampire thirsty for blood.

I’m broken.