Just a summer day

The alarm rings.
I cross the road and start to work.
Within half an hour something unexpected messes up the daily plan, forcing me to be in a hurry for the whole morning. This fucks up straight away my patience, serenity and love for the human race. I'm so misanthropic in summertime. Life sucks.
Break.

Riding my green bike without holding the handlebars makes me feel cool. The blood rushes down from the heart to the legs while some notes bounce between the ears: the old rough punkrock, an electro beat or the sporadic swing voice.
I think that I've got too many things to work on and too short free time. But it's actually a matter of constancy, motivation or energy, I just don't know which one is the guiltiest. In the meanwhile I justify myself with the excuse of time. I complain to myself about it and make some good purposes I won't ever completely fulfill though I know I ought to. I should exploit every moment of my life, I should think more, do more, 'cause the thing that scares me the most is the eventuality to end up living a trivial life. And it's such an easy fate. I need to be on the lookout. But it's quite a tough job.

Quick stop at the beach, where old friend play cards and chat about matters I mostly don't give a fuck about. No surprise if I don't join them so often. My social relationships are so fragmented lately, indeed.
Ride back through the pinewood.

At work again.
I still cannot accept the fact that hospitality is the main working environment of my life, though the bulk of the money I earned so far came from the activities of shaking cocktails and carrying plates. I guess that's a kind of self-defence mechanism: it's already pretty tough to try to reach a different existential condition that the brain needs to keep some impassable boundaries. I can't afford to admit to myself that I am just little more than a waiter, or that would mean giving definitively up. That would be really frustrating. So I try all the time to work out something else. It's a kind of a hobby. But having brilliant ideas is a bizarre activity: they either will be forgotten or will just prove not to be that brilliant, on second thought. The few ones that will pass this stage will be written on papers that will probably be lost. I suppose it's a type of natural selection.
Break again.

Riding in the night, heading toward a couple of beers. Arms crossed and music spreading inside the head, pedalling and lamenting about the too short free time.
Tomorrow I'll manage my day better, I promise.