Why does every Saturday feel like a copy of the last?

A neighbor's donkey always went home by the same road, no matter which way he was pointed at the market gate. So we blindfolded the donkey's eyes, sure that was the trick. Still he went home the same way — his feet remembered every stone without needing his eyes at all. So the next week we wrapped his feet instead, thick rags around each hoof so every step felt strange beneath him. Only then, stumbling and grumbling, did he take four wrong turns and find a road none of us had walked before. Your weekend planning is the blindfold on the eyes. You talk about wanting something different, someone shares an article, someone starts a new group chat. But talking is the eyes. The feet are the actual first hour of Saturday — what happens the moment someone reaches for a phone, or says 'should we just do brunch again.' That habit doesn't listen to intentions. It listens to what's easiest to fall into. And you are not one donkey deciding alone — you are a group of donkeys following each other's feet. Each of you assumes someone else picked this road, so no one questions it, and the template outlives what any of you actually wanted.