Sublime Sunday...
Doubtful. It is a nice Sunday in that it is overcast, cold and raining on and off. It is nice, in that I do not have to go to work. It is nice, in that sick way that pressing a bee sting or sore from a thorn. Keep pressing it to make it hurt more than the norm, turning the normal pain into relief.
It is nice, in that...
I make coffee, have a smoke, come to sit by the computer and run through a few notifications building a todo in the back of my mind because at the forefront...
Sundays are not nice, they are pathetic. A pause between having had to live through a week and a reminder that another is coming. A mentally draining day in which to calculate all that needs to be done and all that is around. Only to affirm the chains keeping me locked down.
Chains of my own making, cutting into my wrists and throat. Screaming silently... Close my eyes and never wake only to close my eyes and wake, feeding on fury. The raging pits of hell inside me.
"Oh hi Satan, what you doing there? "
"I just came to get some tips, don't mind me."
I have always said I understand anger, but I do not understand violence. Violence should be a means to an end, and if you were to hurt someone then you better damn well end it.
Sundays might be for centering yourself. It might be so a person can calmly reassert apathy. Numb is merely a prelude but always a good start. Tainted with hope but do not be fooled...
Simply put Sundays are wake up, pissed off at the world, pissed off at everything around you. Doing a routine and slowly coming back down, finding something to preoccupy yourself.
Dreading tomorrow in brief moments, hating the reality right now. Break from reality right now. None of it makes sense but it is the routine.
The only break is when they are gone, all of it is gone. Then Sunday can be Sublime, since being alone is sublime. Then every day can be sublime.