I don’t want to spend my week off just cooping under the blanket and sleeping like I’ve never gotten enough sleep before. Although it’s true.

I want to hit the gym and read books and see greeneries and play with my furbabies and rekindle the flame once burning so bright—still strong but dimmer.

But the calling from this hazy mind to lay down and do nothing and just forget and shelter myself from everything except self-loathing is difficult to ignore. Don’t think, just overthink.

If I keep rolling inside this blanket, will I slowly become a cocoon and be free from obligations and norms and stigmatization and thoughtless thoughts as I wait to hatch into a butterfly? But even a moth is fine.

It’d be nice to have wings and stop being human and soar away. Away and let the wind take control.