thoughts   |    issue 011

sunday

“How many Sundays – how many hundreds of Sundays like this – lay ahead of me? “Quiet, peaceful and lonely,” I said aloud to myself. On Sundays I didn’t wind my spring.” - h. murakami  (norwegian wood)

The nature of sunday has always been that of a scene that can never be uttered at first command; always will be unique and the calm renegade against throttling Monday, boring Tuesday, barely there Wednesday, distracting just-one-more-day Thursday, thank-god-it’s Friday, and vivid, but shallow Saturdays. The seven sisters, daughters of a god that created for us a playhouse of this world with the sisterhood as a timeframe.

Murakami said it, with that distinctive flourish, indeed, how many sundays lay ahead of us?

The glory of Sunday resides in this:

There is rebirth.

That special ilk of loneliness.

Ingenuity  – the supreme empowerment to be productive, alas it never happens. 

Impeccable, forgivable sloth and gluttony. As if calories were null and void once the day is recognized. 

And when it rains, oh, when it rains, and the smell and taste of the simultaneous warmth and cool earthiness diffuse through the open window, and  “... millions long for immortality who don’t know what to do with themselves on a rainy Sunday afternoon.” 

The existential planning.

The long drive that aids in the escape from human encounters that have left us exhausted during the week.

The decision to let oneself be doused by a mute and impalpable life that is larger, farther from us.

The difference in the smell of the air, the way we walk.

The ruffled apricot vignette that filters our eyes. 

The dissemblance of what coffee would taste like tomorrow and this morning.

Watching films seem more poetic. Save the cabernet.

Even tidying up the room is an infraction against the invisible gospel of sunday itself. 

The deepened observance of the green grass and the blue sky, or even one’s pink fingernails and how they need to be cut. 

A lake, if one is near, like in old American films where a boat is waiting. 

Publications, songs dedicated to it. The Sunday Times. Sunday Morning. Sunday Edition. Sunday... Special Sunday.

Oh, Sunday.

The day one does not necessarily meet his lover, or would stay all day in bed with her, shifting blankets with shifting rays –– soft sunday light. 

In fact, we all drift, float on a Sunday, carried away by the overwhelming statement of a single day marked as the beginning of another week, or the end of it. That we are alive, and life is not about perfection, but a constant rebirth and all the things above.

 © 2018 by Ishka Mejia

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