The Coward’s weekend

Last weekend, the precious two days were forced to be completely handed over to work, and the following days seemed to be spent in LAX thinking and perfunctory things. Although people sat in front of the desk steadily, there was always a voice shouting in their hearts, urging me to escape quickly. The closer the weekend is, the louder the restless shouting seems to be, therefore, I had to try my best to suppress it and reprimanded it severely, so that I would not be hoarse. I don’t know whether the millions of people sitting in front of their desks in Beijing are as exaggerated as me. Maybe many people still like to work hard and seek promotion. On weekends, I am afraid that it is only a temptation for people like me who do not seek for progress or career. After all, how pathetic and helpless it is to do things that you dislike for several days in a row, and then you can get a little free time to do something that you like. An office worker and a housewife, my two identities are doomed to be submerged in trifles in daily life, but at the same time, sadly, I am also a free man who is willing to immerse myself in the spiritual world cast by words and fantasy and eager to enjoy personal time. This contradiction is irreconcilable in daily life. Even if you are busy with dinner and cheer yourself up, telling yourself to hurry up and comfort yourself when dragging the floor, this must be the last thing today. As long as you finish it, immediately lie on the bed and read beautifully. But time didn’t tolerate me once. Every time I looked up at the hour hand, I was disappointed again and again. Actually, there was little time left for me. Therefore, gradually, having my own leisure time has become my extravagant hope, while weekends have naturally become my happy hope and expectation in my life. If there is no entanglement of housework, no job, no date, and no annoying disturbance, then this weekend is just like a delicate and sweet ice cream cake. Just think about it, people can’t help drooling. On a gray winter morning, lying on the warm double bed, I slept till I woke up naturally. Even if I woke up, I didn’t have to get up in a hurry. I picked up a book beside the bed and read slowly. Of course, the body should be shrank into the quilt, and the most comfortable posture should be found. At this time, the last thing I want is that my husband will be sober. I always selfishly hope that he can sleep a little more, and sleep a little more. I ‘d better sleep until I’m tired of watching, when I have to get up to fill my stomach again. As long as he wakes up, all peace and tranquility will be broken. I hate that he turns on the TV, and the news broadcast fills the whole room, just like the noise pulls the sleeping people out of their dreams, which makes me angry but helpless. If he urged me to make breakfast unwittingly at this moment, I would certainly burst out and completely ignored his innocent and confused expression. No wonder that he would never understand the beauty I wanted, so the most horrible thing on weekends was that my neuroticism set off the quarrel between the two sides, and then all the good times were wasted in vain. I remember that Taiwan writer San Mao once said that her ideal was to be a wife of a great artist. When I read her articles, I was still a junior high school student who received noble ideal education, so I didn’t understand or even despised this at that time. But sadly, I don’t know when I began to fall, and I just want to be a housewife, have a husband who loves me, a warm home, and can freely control my life every day, do what you like in the sunny afternoon and enjoy the laziness alone. I like to open my eyes in the morning under the light of the first dawn, kiss my lover beside the pillow gently, and welcome the new day happily. I like to lean against the big French window and see the traffic shuttling downstairs through the glass. I like to shrink on the soft and warm bed, quietly listening to the sound of the rain outside or the sound of the rustling wind, or a large area of snow, and then stretch out of the window to pick up a small flower, watching it condense into tears in the palm of your hand. Or in a sleepless night, unscrew the desk lamp on the head of the bed and let it give out soft warm light. In peace, quietly listen to the even breath of the lover beside the pillow, and then read a story that touches yourself, until the story was finished, tears wet the pillow towel and then fell asleep. But at this moment, I could only sit in front of my desk helplessly and sigh. Or in another five or ten years, I can bravely jump out of the office grid, embrace all dreams and freedom, and turn all imaginary romance into reality. But five or ten years is too long, I can’t wait, and I don’t want to wait. Things that are too far away can be thought but cannot wait. Waiting itself is a kind of suffering. I don’t want to suffer from this kind of suffering, therefore, I can only choose cowardly to extend the short weekend time with my imagination, infinitely, from now on until I grow old, so that I have a long weekend, do what I like with all my heart, and don’t have to worry about the flash of time in two days. On a sunny winter afternoon, in a towering business building, there was a coward sitting steadily in a small grid piled up by computers and files, bowed his head and was busy. Outside the window, there is a heart, crossing all the hustle and bustle, high-rise buildings, running all the way, shouting, what a golden sunshine

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