Sunday Afternoons

Sunday afternoons are particularly hard. Suddenly all the everyday weights are lifted form your shoulders, only to be soon replaced by the looming obliviousness of free will. You could draw something. You could write a song. You cold stare at the wall and nobody would care. Yet there's this overwhelming inability to take action, to make use of this time somehow. The clock is ticking. The level of stress is rising. Tea gets colder with every wasted minute. I can feel my stomach curl in the spasm of unexplained tension. You just need to survive. Till the evening. Till it's time to do something again. To take a bath, read a night-time book, lie down to sleep. Survive. It was not hard with so many things to be done, it should be so much easier with nothing on your mind, no.

Blank page of a sketchbook stares at me defiantly. I told myself oh I could draw so much with free time, I would fill the whole thing in few days, I said. The pen is trembling in my hand, fainting under pressure. Loose lines appear on the page, witless and boring, forced to exist. There's panic, just under the surface, panic that I cannot get hold of, but which is buzzing right there, ready to spring in any second and devour me whole. I keep my guard. Line by line I fill pages with daubs and doodles, single faces, single eyes, single pupils

I don't want to waste my time.

Thanks for sticking around!

Nat