War (1983)

Sunday slips away.

You wake up in the morning and try to piece everything together before it’s just gone forever, POOF, like the week never even happened in your own head. Like the weekend never happened, even in your own mind. Like last night may not have been real after all, and we’re all just playing along with our own memories of what could have occurred.

It’s one of those days that you need in order to stay sane, a recap day, something to steady you before the week grinds together again. It lasts forever but you need it more and more and more until you can’t stop getting enough enough sundaysundaySUNDAY and it’s midnight and you couldn’t name one thing that you actually did or accomplished today, but you NEEDED it. It’s steady as you go, there for you always when you expect it, leaving you wanting more and less at the same time like a schizophrenic at a circus. What did I just say? Did that make sense? Did I REALLY do that last night? We went where?? With THEM?!...

Was it awesome?

Sundays slip away just like the days you’re recovering from. The whole [we met up with them then we went there then all I remember is the taste of whiskey] then it’s five o’clock and I might have to actually do homework now? The day disappears quicker than your memory can recover. Gotta get everything out and rehashed before it’s gone forever.

It slips away like the ice that turns your drink from a warm glass of a beautiful poison to a frosted chalice holding the key to how exquisite your night will be, melting away like all your most hilarious inhibitions. It slips away like the slow-burning end of that cigarette paper in your hand, delicately balanced between two fingers like you were born to hold it - what is it about holding fire that is so attractive to the human race (whatever doesn’t kill me let’s me live another day)? – and as it reaches its conclusion it’s gone forever along with every thought you just had. Paper to ashes, memories to dust. You write because those words don’t float away into the early morning skies.

It slips away like the dregs of a relationship, dragging along until its conclusion, good til the last drop [thought slightly diluted] and then it’s over, start the cycle again, let’s go now, everything back to basics. There and gone, week begins, over and over andoverandoveruntilforever(andever). You've burned up a thousand Sundays in your twenty years, fifty-two each time you buy a new calendar, 104 every two years, 1,040 Sundays spent in any way imaginable and counting until ashes ashes we all fall down.

Sometimes Sunday is just a test of your will, if you can will yourself to do all the work you put off over the weekend. But early March, not a cloud in the sky and it’s fifty degrees, and you expected to do work? Not a chance. So it lingers on, the day wasting away in the best way possible, in the worst way possible, in any way at all as long as it's wasted.

And wasn't that the whole problem in the first place?

Let's begin again.

ed. note: This is one half of a blog-off with Lauren Rodrigue about the topic Sunday. Check out hers next at http://lrodrigue.wordpress.com/