I hate Sunday.
It brings the rain, the death of a weekend, and all the other things that add to my doom and gloom mood.
Sunday reminds me that in approximately 11 hours, 23 minutes, and 52 seconds (51, 50, 49, 48….) reality resumes and the seemingly endless nights of wishes and dreams must come to an end.
47, 46, 45, 44….
Monday will become a monster that I don’t want to conquer, and my sword becomes a cup of coffee and two aspirins.
Tuesday will be cruel and insist that I put aside such childish things and focus on the future. Tuesday is a fascist and doesn’t know what it’s talking about.
43, 42, 41, 40…
Wednesday will wear me down and make me believe that maybe I shouldn’t dream. It will stifle my words and hold me down for one more day.
39, 38, 37, 36…..
Thursday is a bit kinder, like a mother speaking softly, “It’s almost over. It’s almost over.”
35, 34, 33, 32….
Friday pushes and pulls, tugs and screams, “Come back to me! You’ll never be free!” Some days I almost believe it.
31, 30, 29, 28…
But Friday dies in the night, and for one kind moment, I can breathe again.
For 48 hours I am me again.
But Sunday is crawling all over me, whispering its return until I’m left with the most bitter of blues.
27, 26, 25, 24…