This is an essay I wrote about Sunday for my creative writing class. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but it’s all I’ve got for you today. Enjoy.



It’s supposed to be the day of rest. A day that we set aside, to be free of the anxieties and pressures of the five day work week. I find that Sunday has a melancholic glow about it. The flustered flush of a whirlwind of activity fades from our faces, and somberness creeps into the soul. It’s a quiet day. The banks are closed, the shops shut down early, and the streets near empty. It’s the opportunity to curl up, all alone, with a good book and some soft music. We can pamper ourselves on Sunday- a long bath, beauty treatments, a Netflix marathon. Or maybe you go to Church on the Lord’s day, like me. You listen to the sermon and reflect on your shortcomings. You confess your sins and resolve to do better. And you feel better, at least for awhile. Invariably the loneliness settles in.

Sunday is standing on a precipice. It’s a risk. Perhaps a choice. It’s an in-betweener kind of day. The week passes in a slow drudgery and our eyes look forward to the clock, ticking on and on towards that final bell, the end of the shift. In a buzz of energy we rush forward and color the town. Friday and Saturday are boisterous and loud and fleeting. The Sunday sun rises and washes the artificial color away and we finally see. The week is clouded, Friday and Saturday magnified, but Sunday is true. Without distractions, we feel things fully, heavily. Emotions become highly saturated. And we decide who we want to be.

Sunday is the best day. On Sunday, I become aware of myself. I feel alone and I worry  and I get sad. However- I get to choose. I get to choose what my next week will be. Maybe it will be better, or the same.  Maybe I will refuse to make any choices. But it is an opportunity to think. And invariably Sunday will always come around.