Title: When the Mountain Comes to You (A Friday Monologue)

I am very absent right now.

Like—mentally gone. No recollection of the past few minutes in my own mind. My current mantra is just: Calm down, the day will soon be over. The weekend is your gift to reset, refocus, and restart. But let’s not pretend—I am deep in limbo. The kind of mental limbo that makes you stare at the wall wondering if this is how yogurt feels before it expires.

I suspect karma has launched a petty, personalized attack on me—and it's all because I failed spectacularly on my morning routine. I made a verbatim promise to the new gym instructor (yes, one of those ones who sees into your soul like a Catholic priest) that I’d show up for leg day. Morning came, and what did I do? Woke up an hour after my alarm… then stayed in bed for 40 more minutes, thinking about a whole lot of absolutely nothing. Just vibes and guilt.

Now, I’m dragging my half-spirit through the rest of the day, relying on distractions to carry me. And for once, I am deeply grateful for a Friday afternoon stand-up meeting. Never thought I’d say that. But that, and my long-overdue plant walkabout—yes, the one I’ve been procrastinating for 2.33 years—are my lifelines. Curiosity will carry me through that tour like a cat on a recon mission.

The evening? Overplanned. Catching up with my siblings at my place, which I predict will last exactly 49 minutes before I fake-yawn and excuse myself to “rest.” I already know the script.

Now, the weekend looks promising, but it’s full of over-promises I’m only half-optimistic about keeping. Still, I will do something physical—or physical-adjacent—to break this gym guilt spell and bring my dopamine levels back into equilibrium. Movement is therapy. Endorphins are life.

But hear me out—I’m not fully to blame for this spiral. Part of the blame goes squarely to my hiking group, who gently encouraged me to take a one-month break from the trails. Excuse me?? How exactly am I supposed to survive a month without trail dust in my lungs, overpriced gas station snacks, and obsessively checking GPX stats like an elite mountaineer in training?

What do people even do on Fridays if they’re not packing gear, topping up their hydration packs, and mentally preparing to obey a 3:00 AM alarm for a 4:00 AM trailhead departure? Drink wine and talk about office drama? Please.

“Only hikers pay money, lose sleep, and risk blisters just to climb a hill and say, ‘That was fun—let’s do it again next weekend.’”

At this point, even my water intake is confused. Why do I need three liters on Thursday and Friday if I’m not climbing anything this weekend? Hydration without a summit feels… disloyal.

Honestly, I’m about to break this so-called “break.” I’ll settle for a moderate trail—anything to shake off this limbo. Because if it’s not already written, it should be: If you ignore the call of the mountain, and choose to stay grounded for too long, the mountain will come to you. And that’s exactly what’s happening.

Right now, a mountain of slow thoughts, boredom, and existential slowness is setting up camp in my mind. And I’m not sitting pretty while that happens.

“They say masochism is a vice—unless you’re a hiker. Then it’s just called ‘training.’”

So, where is the next trail, please? I need to feel alive again.