Isn’t it funny how you look forward to the weekend, and yet when it arrives you can see it, you know it’s there, but somehow it remains just out of reach. Before you know it the next week has arrived and you’re pitched into it, trying to make it look like putting one foot in front of the other was some sort of plan.
We’re all making it up really, aren’t we. Making it up as we go along. Doing our best. Or just doing.
I find myself “just doing” quite a lot at the moment. Getting from one day to the next - doing what is needed. Keeping everybody else off my back just long enough to daydream about what I might be doing instead.
I love daydreaming. Some people call it procrastinating. I call it daydreaming. The theatre of the mind.
In recent weeks I’ve had a succession of bizarre dreams. All that remains about most of them now is the feeling that they were unhinged. The dreams I have talked or written about seem to have cemented themselves somehow. It’s funny how that works. Perhaps because you don’t experience a dream with the rest of your senses, it becomes transitory. If however you tell somebody about it, it somehow becomes more real. Forming the words somehow anchors the story.
Anyway.
Monday is nearly here. Another week stretches out ahead. I wonder what it will bring?
Perhaps I should start choosing what each day might bring, rather than accepting what is delivered.
p.s. I bought a wonderful book by a blogging friend today. Perhaps I’ll go read it in bed, and avoid the arrival of Monday for a little while longer.