I am chronically unsatisfied.
I woke up just after 8 AM this morning. I got out of bed shortly thereafter, let the dog out, and started the coffee. Before I had my first cup, I had vacuumed most of the house and started a load of laundry. I drank my first cup of coffee while working on a document I had brought home from the office. I drank my second cup of coffee working on the first chapter of the story I started a week ago. It was an odd Saturday. I had more accomplished by 11 AM than I sometimes do all weekend.
It’s just after 7 PM now. I have watched some TV and a movie and a half. I have finished two loads of laundry and am currently typing this post in my office, which until today had gone unused by me (the dog, however, is in here most days because it’s where his armchair is). The desk has been cleared off and dusted. I have even been to the local grocery store to return the movies I’d rented yesterday on my way home.
I have been writing off and on all day. I don’t have much in the way of numbers of pages, but I have a whole new angle to the tale that I love. For the first time since I started it, it feels like something that needs to be written.
Had I imagined yesterday what my perfect Saturday might have looked like, it probably would have been remarkably similar to the one I actually had (assuming I was imagining a Saturday within the realm of possibility). Yet, I am uncomfortably unsatisfied.
I am going to go to bed with a book soon. I’m tired from waking up so early.
I don’t know what I would have wanted to happen today that didn’t. I only know that it feels like something is missing. It almost always feels like something is missing.