It always starts the same way. The hands of time turn and reach the point in the week where capitalism declares me free for two measly days. It doesn’t free me; I’m just freed enough. “There is more than one kind of freedom, Freedom to and freedom from.”, goes a quote from Margaret Atwood’s ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’. I have freedom to exist and do as I please (or so I think) but I’m not free from society’s expectation to exist in a specific way. And then there’s the restlessness, snuggled in-between the two, barely concealed, poking at the surface. It asks, “What are we doing?”. It’s not the existential kind; It’s shallow, looking only at the next 48 hours, demanding a quick fix in an age of instant gratification.

The weekend brings with it an irresistible urge to step out, with an intensity that surprises me. This urge isn’t the whim of a child, one that can be fooled and misled by a stroll in the park and pointing to things. No, it must be satiated with effort. A change of scene. A change of clothes. A cup of coffee, a catch-up, an activity, an event. The whole shebang.