It’s a bit scary how I got used to working on weekends that whenever I have a free one, I don’t have anything else to do. I must be doomed. 

It has been a hell lot of work load these past three/four months - working almost 15 hours at the office on weekdays, and spending weekends just about the same. I complain a lot, yes, but I must have liked it in a way that I just kept on doing it. In all honesty, I didn’t know what my motivation was. It wasn’t even the pay check. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was my monotonous routine. Maybe it was lifelessness. My life was a blah, and I somehow needed it. Yes, I have given it a thought real good. The thing is, the advantage of working on end is that it keeps me away from all the overthinking. It was some sort of an escape. But definitely, an unhealthy escape. I won’t say I managed the stress, because God knows I did not. 

It’s a shame how whenever someone asks me what I usually do on weekends, I answers ‘work’. Yuck. What a bore. 

But it all panned out just the same, with or without that shit of workload. Lighting a cigarette to alleviate stress saying ‘just one stick’, but then you found yourself smoking another; finishing a bottle of beer while Netflix is playing in the background because you only like the noise it makes; reading a book, but not understanding anything from it so you re-read that same paragraph for the eight time; watching people glued to their mobiles, wondering if that actually makes them a normal being; wanting to get a random tattoo or a piercing but not being able to bring yourself to really doing it; and doing just about anything that could keep you away from sinking into your self-destruction. It was like being trapped in a quicksand, you keep on pulling away but you are still stuck and gripped.

It was tough, it has always been tough. And still, I pick myself up. I know what to do, I have always knew. 

So hey self, don’t love your chains. 

I was at home, on a Sunday, with nothing else to do.