Sunday evenings

Sundays feel terrible. True to their name they're obnoxiously sunny, it's annoying. And it sometimes gets really pretty in the evenings, with pink skies and everything. They feel the worst when you're at home. The suspiciously ubiquitous sunshine even in this monsoon and the apparently beautiful sunset at the end, the quietness of it all, the waking up at 8, the all three meals had with family - they're so scary. It feels like a dying wish and it most surely is. You feel it all over you and you know all of this will disappear so soon, and then you're terrified of enjoying it lest you make a habit of joy. Even if you knew Sundays happen every week, which you most likely do, the spookiness still laces the sunshine you consume in that 10 am breakfast once a week. And it is fatal, killing some part of you that you assume has Phoenix-like resurrection abilities. For there is this recurrent fear of a perfect Sunday you know cannot be improved upon. You know this day will be gone and with it all of that perfection. The death of a local Sunday within a week and the death of a global perfect Sunday - it all becomes too much to bear. But you wouldn’t put a lid on it yourself. You'd watch the light die out and muster some courage to go to sleep and wake up early and whatnot.