I hate weekends.

The Workaholic Syndrome or How I learnt to cure my Anxiety by focusing my energy on being productive.

“They call holidays an option for a reason”, sang Andy Hull from Manchester Orchestra in the song “Where have you been?”.

“woman sitting on bed with flying books” by Lacie Slezak on Unsplash

Something about that resonates with me; it’s not that I don’t enjoy holidays, I’d rather just pick them on my own terms.

I am by no means a contemporary employed individual, I’ve got several projects I work on at a time and then there’s times when I do absolutely nothing except for making random lists.

For some reason, the idea of being in a Band is how I could best describe my work-ethic.

There’s the Album Production and then there’s the Touring Side of it.

I don’t get tired, not in the conventional sense, and I’ve always got something or the other to work on. There’s an entire room filled with random files and notes I’ve left that I resort to when I need something to work on.

But the idea of weekends annoys me; because it enforces a sense that I should probably take some time off.

I often joke that if Fridays were called Monday, we’d hate them more; something I’m not even sure makes a-lot of sense.

I just like saying it ’cause it makes me sound smarter than I actually am.

I’m going to be departing on a marine project, something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time. Deep sea exploration.

I’ve never done it before and as a matter of fact, I’m not even much of a swimmer not a diver.

What I am is a Photogrammetry engineer who happens to be fairly decent at creating point-clouds out of photographs; it’s a venture that I’m excited about not because it’s something I’ve never done before, but it’s something that I’m not even sure counts as work.

It feels as though I’m being taken on a luxury vacation and being paid to do it.

I’ve never had such an experience before and something about being detached from the daily noise and technology feels like a breath of fresh-air.

I’ve been warned by veterans that although it can be exciting, it’s pretty easy to get sick of it after a while.

So I’ve been warned, and as such I’m willing to it.

Because, why not? Fuck it.

It’s something I probably won’t ever get a chance to do again and if it turns out to be a miserable experience, at-least I’ll know not to do it again and send an intern instead.

On the other hand, if it turns out to be great — I would’ve experience something I’ve longed for a very long time; A work-vacation.

Instead of sipping Piña-Coladas and laying on a beach, which my parents will be doing this summer, I’ll be deep at sea in the middle of fuck-knows-where with people who are highly competent and heroes of mine.

Taking a departure for constantly searching for things to do and instead having to wake up at a place where there’s always something to be done is an exciting idea to me — and if I make it back, not only will I have a fucking great story to write about; it will be filled with either extremely haunting or extremely wonderful memories.

I failed to learn the piano, so I decided I’d play the keyboard instead. //All aboard the Crazytrain.

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