Sunday arrives quietly, without argument; no alarms rending the morning calm, nor lists waiting sternly, awaiting action no push, no rush to step out anywhere, just the clock ticking away sans authority, retreating shyly into the background.
Today, the day is unclaimed by urgency daylight spills unguarded, into my palm; the curtains, gently swaying, announce— today, even silence is companionable; routine sets itself aside and winks, predictability rests in a silent surrender.
Today, there is no virtue in being efficient no medal for completion or anything of that sort; Sunday demands a different discipline, to rise when the body is done with dreaming and brewing tea, whilst watching the steam ascend, no plans, no listicles, absolutely none of that.
Sunday is a walk with no destination; to savour the essence of an unplanned day and watch a book open its’ quiet doors, while the streets unfold like half-read paragraphs, nudging us to pause and witness the cassia blooms falling upon dried leaves beneath the blades of grass.
Today, poetry will fill the sky with dreams; old forgotten songs will float across blew in by the wind from many moons ago. Sunday is not an escape at all but a much-needed return to meet ourselves, beyond the schedules and demands of a busy week.
As evening rolls, the light begins to tilt; and slowly, duty beckons just once more the week ahead stands akimbo at the threshold, clearing its throat, announcing its claims; a subtle shift and a pause and then, the silence a quiet fullness fills to the brim in the chest.
No wonder then, for a day of living unmeasured we chose the moment over all the mandates. And in our choosing, a resolute calmness comes It’s not filling the hours, but living for presence Readying to step into the regimented hours, not rushed, but carrying the pause within.
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Awww… what a perfect ode to the best day of the week.