I hate Sundays.
The false comfort in the fact that it’s still part of the weekend; yet is a warning of the days to come.
Sunday lies.
It lies through its teeth just so you can wallow up to your waist in worry.
It tells you things you never want to hear, but can’t resist listening to.
Go on, forget. It whispers in my ear so soft I think it’s my own voice.
Reluctantly, I comply. I forget all and every priority and try to enjoy the rest of the weekend.
But then, another whisper.
You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?
I try and try to remember anything that may have slipped my mind, but I come up short and out of breath.
I look up at the sailboats drifting in the sea, leaving for nowhere.
It gives me stomach pains just to look at them. Leaving a perfectly safe place in search of a purpose is in no way effective, in my eyes.
I want to scream out to them, “This is pointless! Your life is pointless! Look in another direction!” But I can’t, for they have made their choice and I, mine.
The feeling of yesterday swallows you whole and shields you from the day breaking from its roots ahead of you.