Sundays are always a little rough. Besides the obvious assumption that I’m discussing hangovers, they’re just hard. Sundays are full of emotions, and not usually the fun kind. The introspective kind. The ones I ignore all week until Sunday when I sleep in late and never want to get out of bed. So I think. And I wonder what I’m doing. If things will ever work out. If life will ever make sense the way I want it to. If I’ll ever shake this feeling in the pit of my stomach. The one I forget exists – even momentarily – during the week. The one that says things won’t work out. And it’s all my fault. Because I’m not good at this. At people. At knowing them, at knowing myself.

So I plan. I plan my escape plan. And I wonder when the next time I’ll run will be. Because that’s what I’m good at.


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