One finds the subject of being busy, as a matter of fact, very immanent. But in the general notion, the definition pertains to one's work. The work, which pays for the bread and butter, which in turn leads to the want of more bread and butter. And when one is occupied with heaps of work, everything else seems to shift to lower gears. The frequency of hectic days spilled with strenuous schedules in crescendo turns one to be habituated to the same.
The journey of 'work for home' to 'work from home' seems fluid. The occasional scream of the US open applauses amidst rallies on the TV does not seem to bother, strangely. The saga of such feverish days makes one a little upstage from an otherwise social life. One finds it difficult to fit the tasks of writing stories or tweeting, in the always-less-than-sufficient 24 hours. Needless to say, the whole befalling leads one to hope for a serene weekend.
Oddly, the thirstily anticipated weekend ends up less placid than the weekdays. And the weekend radar is replete with variegations of flashing laziness by idling away comfortably in the couch, watching TV aimlessly, staring at the clouds from the balcony, listening to music avidly, fiddling with the phone for hours, talking on the phone for minutes and the likes. Some might call exactly this a defined form of relaxation. Yet, one considers doing all these diligently as being busy and absorbed.
However occupied weekends are with aforesaid activities, just to think of Monday morning and the week ahead rapidly throws up a flare of alarm. Life suddenly seems brilliantly mundane. But this seemingly incidental thought is attempted to be hazed under the hoods of being busy.
Yet another week beckons. One teaches oneself the art of being busy.
