Letter to Working Hours

Respected Working Hours,

That part of the day when I could break down into a waterfall quite easily. That part of the day I dread through the week. That part of the day when I wish death unto myself. The Evening of a Sunday. Disquieting.

I feel miserable right now, with my nyakra and runny-nose and congested head. I feel suffocated, and feel like screaming. I feel a lot of things. My specs are making a pronounced effect on the bridge of my nose, the under-eye buckets are darker and deeper, the usual bouncy hair is an oily-mess and yes, in one word, I feel ugly. Also, I am sneezing ceaselessly.

If it were not for an autocratic air of expectation over me, I could have missed out on tomorrow. Or any day that made me a salaried slut. Wasting hours in the name of working hours. And constantly cribbing about it to myself. This is not me. Unhappy, ruffled, distanced. I like things easy, casual, well-slotted into peace chambers. I like being lazy. And then enjoying the wasted hours which do not feel wasted at all.

Working into the hours doesn't feel like work at all when we do things we are meant to do, like this. Working hours could be so much more workable with variables of comforting company. Well, now it is just working with the hours. Life is divided into two distinct categories: Working Hours and Non-working Hours. Incidentally, and interestingly, I am most productive in the later. Content too.

I often assert that love is the beginning and end of it all. I correct myself oftener. Economics is.

K.