Some men plan weekends. The right ones plan seasons

Friday nights used to be the highlight of the week, their indulgent shenanigans providing relief from a hard week's work. Even at the end of the longest week the promise of Saturday and Sunday's freedom gave enough fuel to ensure the night would only end after last call.

These days at the end of the week there is no shock of excitement. Instead, on Friday's clock-out there is only resignation, a cool acceptance that come Monday morning that awful omnipresent weight won't have gotten any more manageable.

Mondays now perversely come with their own comfort. At the start of the week we are once again embraced by the possibility of purpose. It may be a shitty purpose where we trade time for trinkets — time for dollars — but at least it's something. When the weekends lost their luster we cast about for new gratification. In a life void of adventure, this sense of fulfillment was found in building the empire of others while creating marginal gains in our own well-being.

It's easy to justify this new normal. Brews and bars have been traded for broods and cars while our hearts have been filled, our souls have hollowed out. Each day is suffered, not lived, and as it ends the tired mantra that "this too shall pass" is mumbled through our sleep.

The strains of success have left nothing more than a shiny facade. Its gleaming contours may be admired but a hollow shell can support nothing. We exist in rich waters that hold all the answers we seek yet cannot manage a drop to drink.

It's time to reclaim Friday nights, not to go back to what they were but to push forward, seeking out escapes which pull us back into the present. To find a pack to pull you up before you slip beneath the wheel. Let us venture out to contemplative nights beneath the stars with only the warmth of brotherhood to fight off the chill..