Every Saturday afternoon I find myself stuck

Between a rock and a hard place

A phrase which here means

Lying motionless in bed with the windows open

Stealing my narrative style from Lemony Snicket feels cheap

My head throbs

I find myself here not so much downcast

And in fact just tired

Oddly enough the voice in my head

Sounds joyous today

My thoughts run ahead of me

Rushing between uncountable tasks

I feel so excited to begin

Every second I remember another vague impulse

Each has been written as an entry

On this directors cut of a to-do list

'Collaborate more'

'Sit and read in the garden'

'Learn about all the classic American soul record labels from the 1960s'

'Visit the Horniman museum when lockdown is over'

'Finish watching I May Destroy You'

And right at the bottom

'Clean up list'

Each entry is more important than any before it

Not one deletable

Each entry is more exciting than anything

I've ever spent my time upon

Each entry will finally be the beginnings of

My life

And so the rock

A word which here refers to my impulses

Rears its ugly mixed-metaphor head

Saturday afternoon gives way

To option paralysis of the highest degree

And meanwhile

We find ourselves in a hard place

A phrase which here means a soft mattress

Over here on branch 2 we are no closer to recovery

We are not fixed by resting

We are

Not

Any

Happier by lying here

My mind races with thoughts

Of the hundredth thing I could do

Yet simultaneously

Exhausted

Sleep-deprived

Unable

Here lies my body

Divided between extremes

Shifting position

Desperate to feel comfortable

Never satisfied

Every Saturday afternoon I find myself stuck

Between a rock and a hard place