Sundays

Sundays are those horrible nothing days. Days spent hungover, reminiscing the past week and constructing future plans. Sundays are the weekly prep: cooking lunches for the week, washing, ironing. Like an emotional limbo, I linger in a daze flitting from one chore to the next until my week is tidily prepared in a neat little bow.

In an attempt to recapture some of my wasted day I write, paint and lose myself in TV programs that my brain has been overzealous in its attempt to empathise with characters I have nothing in common with.

I slip deeper and deeper into my chair, my eyelids heavy with exhaustion but my brain active with ideas. It’s now I torture myself with ideas of grand gestures: a change in career, a bold house move, something to break the monotony of the day. Maybe this is just down to an unoccupied brain, maybe secretly deep down I want something to change, for something to give.

But nothing will, until I say so.

So I throw myself into my writing and my art with a new found enthusiasm, a passion to feel something. I get angry as I launch my paint brush at an empty canvas, feel the bubble of excitement in my stomach as my fingers type before my brain gets a say. I shut off that part of my brain that is most susceptible to anxiety and bouts of depression and let passion run the show.

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