This drifter

Literally, she is dragging her brain in dirt as she lay her fingers onto the keyboard forming words right now. She is so tired. So tired of catching up with that has been given to her. Tired of trying to catch up because she doesn’t seem to finish. She doesn’t know know where is the finish line. Everything is half-way. Everything has a deadline. And there is no finish line.

She reaches for coffee. Silently wishing it is fresh ground coffee instead of sachet, but she doesn’t have a choice. Everyone else drinks chocolate or tea. Too lazy to prep her own hand-drip. But whenever she makes them, there would be people hounding her for some. Then complain the coffee is too bitter. Of course they are, they are how she likes it – don’t complain, it is her coffee. Meh. On some days her thoughts be like, “Go add sugar. It’ll taste better for you (ungrateful bastard),” while other days, she doesn’t care.

Maybe her ground coffee is finished? She can’t decide. Not bothered to move an inch off the seat to check either.

Everything seems to be… undecided for her. Not really undecided, more like a blurry state of making decisions. She is the wood adrift in the sea. Just float somewhere. Somewhere else, not here, but can someone just pick her up to the beach?

She is tired of weighing like, what’s the best thing to do right now, best solution, best sentence to appease, best time to leave, how what when where why. Especially without a car. It broke yesterday morning on her way to work.

Tonight she is expected to manage, get the kids ready, grab something for potluck and get to her in-Laws by 7.00 tonight. It is stressing the heck out of her. She already feels her emotions pushed around in the family messaging group. She chose best not to respond at all. Her silence has a lasting impression on them. Hence why MIL has kept asking why ‘NOBODY’ has been responding. She doesn’t really give a sh*t about it, really. Her mind gets catapult somewhere else each time, but the constant incoming messages will remain to bite her in her ass.

“Whatever,” she mutters under her breath. Puts her thoughts away. She forces her focus on incoming emails, even though what she reads doesn’t make any sense to her at all.


Well, everything is whatever. And whatever will sort itself soon, by itself.


Author: momsthetruth

Her own worse critic, full of love and full of walls. She can't digest her own brain + emotion combo, with the littlest emotional bin EVER. They all just must be out, somewhere; sometimes imprinted into the walls of her blog etches.

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