For most of my time, I have always hated Sundays. ‘Hate’, I know, is a strong word and not one that should be used liberally, or frequently – if at all. Such ‘sentiment’ should be reserved for when it is due to be delivered.
Sundays, to me, have always signified an end: the part of the party in which everyone realizes they have stayed too long; the final scene in a film or a television series – written poorly in comparison to its premise – that finishes leaving the viewer alienated; sex with someone after you have already decided upon dislike; a video game that will not save your progress once you have finally beaten its final and most difficult boss.
Finality and a concept of an end are uncomfortable for human digestion. Most would prefer to entertain, swallow and enjoy the concept of ‘forever’: forever in love, forever in expectation, forever in anticipation – forever in something never quite there in the first place.
But, it makes us feel better. Because if nothing else, we always want to ‘feel’ something, be it for ourselves or for others. Rarely one desires to feel nothing for no one: isolation and idle handles breed badly.
Curious, when ones behavior seemingly proves atypical of humanity’s adoptive distances, from its sheepish declarations of hedonism and forgetfulness, from its pitiful failure yet simultaneously shameless worship of monogamy, and from its general dislike for common sense.
A deck of cards is able to be played out; a round of black jack retains high potential to bust; a game of craps is either red or black – there are no blurred lines: chance remains, yet stamina declines, and uncertainty easily reigns with terrible kings.
I wonder if most eagerly accept awareness of such ‘randomness’ as it has presented itself or if more feel a possibility exists in which we cannot understand nor explain the unfamiliar cracks in the wall, an unlikely attraction, or slight sounds we hear between sleep.
good advice 