Sunday.


This is the final day of the week for most of us, a day that brings the weekend to a slow death. A day so highly regarded it is in fact deemed the day of rest by Roman emperor Constantine the first who decreed this in 321 AD. A day so adored with religion you would think nothing wrong can go your way on this day, “The lord’s day” they call it in Greece.

Sunday’s for me are probably my worst days if I’m being honest, and don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of good that comes out of days like these. Be it family, or worship, or whatever it is you enjoy doing on your Sundays that make you happy, Sundays are usually associated with spiritual peace and a general serenity, and it is because of this I find it strange how it could mean the complete opposite to me.

To me Sunday is a day of great discomfort, a day where I tend to sum up the whole week and question myself over certain things that took place in it. Only it never stops there, it goes further, deeper. This is a day where I often question my existence and whether it’s worth living for, a day where I’m reminded of all the pain and suffering in the world, and why certain hardships happen to certain people. This is nothing suicidal by the way, I just struggle a little more than I should on this day. Sundays for me are almost like a cold reality check, a day that wipes away all the meaningless fun you had over the weekend and leaves the void you thought you had filled. A day that screams salvation, but whispers entrapment.

Sunday is a day where I am not myself, a day where all the drugs wear off and the imagery is focused, an image we often lose sight of, but never forget. This is a day I find myself questioning what was and hoping for the best of what is yet to be. This is the day I miss you more than I ever have, the day where I truly understand what all those love songs are about; the day I remember how only time can heal the pain, but even then it still hurts.

Sunday reminds me of what I have, but more importantly what I don’t have, it leaves me thinking about how he treated you, and how if given that same chance you’d only be crying tears of joy. Sunday often makes me think of the loved ones I’ve lost, and the ones I am yet to lose, it reminds me of how short life is and how much we take it for granted.

I do deeply apologise to those of you who actually do love Sundays, and everything it represents, I just hope you stick to what makes you happy just like what I’m doing because, if it weren’t for Sundays and the way it makes me feel, I would have never started writing in the first place, and I’m only now getting to understand how important that is to me. 

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