My work life has become all consuming.
I know that it will end, somewhere between mental exhaustion and the murder of my laptop, but right now it feels as though I am on an endless loop of number crunching and rationed fast food. I haven't been running. I haven't been sleeping. I don't remember the last time I rolled around in bed in blissful glee. My body is aching with the need to stretch and shake off this adamant indifference. I stumble around blindly trying to find my reading glasses before embarrassingly realising that they are perched upon my nose. I am littered with dark bruises from tired induced spatial unawareness. I haven't written a story or a poem or a haiku or a shopping list in what seems like a century, words building up in my head like a giant wobbling Jenga. Urgh. Bring me thy blanket and thy Netflix, for art thou fucking knackered.
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AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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