One more week. Count down has started. It seems endlessly far away and utterly close. I get nervous when I look at my calendar. My to-do list is shorter, but not gone. I keep on adding stuff. As if I refuse myself to leave with an empty head. I also tend to fill my first weeks off with all kind of tasks. Just as long as I don’t have to do what I actually set out for to do: writing. The serious stuff. Finishing my first draft, finally, because now I have the time to do so. Do I?
I stare at my schedule. My temporary homes are settled for the first weeks. A reunion with old and new friends. I promise myself a regime, and I promise myself to stick to it: Writing every day, of only sixty words. En take a walk every day, whatever the weather is like. The rest of the time I can do whatever I want, whether it is work, partying or doing absolutely nothing, it is up to me.
Look at me, restraining myself again in obligations. Scared for the freedom perhaps? I laugh out loud, knowing that it will all go differently then planned. I make myself another coffee, look at my list and start to cross off things of my to do list of which I know I won’t be doing them anyway. Too bad, but this is what it is, I tell myself. And I believe it.