Saturday

Saturday

Every Saturday afternoon I find myself stuck
Between a rock and a hard place
A phrase which here means
Lying motionless in bed with the windows open
Stealing my narrative style from Lemony Snicket feels cheap
My head throbs

I find myself here not so much downcast
And in fact just tired
Oddly enough the voice in my head
Sounds joyous today

My thoughts run ahead of me
Rushing between uncountable tasks
I feel so excited to begin
Every second I remember another vague impulse
Each has been written as an entry
On this directors cut of a to-do list

'Collaborate more'
'Sit and read in the garden'
'Learn about all the classic American soul record labels
From the 1960s'
'Visit the Horniman museum when lockdown is over'
'Finish watching I May Destroy You'
And right at the bottom
'Clean up list'

Each entry is more important than any before it
Not one deletable
Each entry is more exciting than anything
I've ever spent my time upon
Each entry will finally be the beginnings of
My life

And so the rock
A word which here refers to my impulses
Rears its ugly mixed-metaphor head
Saturday afternoon gives way
To option paralysis of the highest degree
And meanwhile

We find ourselves in a hard place
A phrase which here means a soft mattress
Over here on branch two we are no closer to recovery
We are not fixed by resting
We are not any happier by lying here

My mind races with thoughts
Of the hundredth thing I could do
Yet simultaneously exhausted, sleep-deprived
Unable

Here lies my body
Divided between extremes
Shifting position
Desperate to feel comfortable
Never satisfied

Every Saturday afternoon I find myself stuck
Between a rock and a hard place