Weekends always have a funny way of getting under my skin. I don't know if it's the time of the week where (by default) I'd have alcohol expectations, or the haphazard dinners, or the hopeless napping.
It always comes down to this. Every Sunday it all comes crashing down and I realize that magic is not real and neither is this, this is not feasible, most of all I have been deluding myself thinking that I am truly happy.
I tried thinking about happy moments but I find myself struggling with my reasons for recording and representing these parts of my life. If no representation is ever truthful, my words and expressions are finite, and even if I pen it down these thoughts fight to leave my mind unless I re-read them, then why do I bother? My memory is a broken sieve, some times it frustrates me to no end.
I wish I knew what I was looking for.
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