I would like to think it is not Monday’s fault. It is after all just a day of the week. It is also synonymous with those Monday to Friday 9-5 workday, and it means a beginning. Normally I love beginnings, especially of novels. They are glorious and full of potential, they are seedlings and still have so much room to grow, and done right they make you tingle with anticipation setting the tone for the rest of the book.
But Mondays as a day of the week and a beginning of the work week, really mean an end to the freedom you had previously experienced. They are not so much beginnings as endings. This is what I loathe about Mondays. The return to the day job, where the possibility of what I want my life to be, clashes with the reality of where I am currently at. It always takes me some time to shift priorities and move around my headspace.
And in doing so, the shifting, I feel like everything that I am, that I want to be, gets put on the back burner, so a job that makes me feel like just a cog in the machine gets the best of me each day, and and all I have for me are the leftovers. I sift through those scraps at the end of the day, and try to find the version of myself I want to be, and hold onto that, and push her to put words on paper, to claw her way inch by inch to her goal, so that one day I get the best of me, all the time.
So that one day, I am not leftovers.