We begin at the top of the graph around Friday afternoon where things are slowly closing at your business and you are looking forward to something, it hasn't happened just yet, so it might as well bear the weight of your expectations, and then depending on your age you either go out on Fridays evenings or just meetup someone just as excited as you are- or you cosy up with a book, or who are we kidding, with a phone and spend the evening indoors, either way, you do what you feel like, there is no stopping you (like there is no stopping this sentence!)
Saturdays are for errands, coffee walks, cleaning, adulting, was auch immer! And without going into excruciating details about the weekend nitty gritties, Sundays are for brunches and museums (talking solely about the bubble I am in, and as we are so used to living in our own bubbles, it is sadly only habitual to start believing that your reality, is THE reality, while in reality — that couldn´t be further from the truth; however, I digress).
And then comes in this ungodly hour, slightly after lunch when the clock strikes 14:00, you have lived your expectations (or you have not) and either way, there is this silence, just you and your thoughts, you have forgotten to bring your earphones to blare your favorite Guy Raz episode or the literal 20 songs you have been listening since a goddamn decade now) — so inevitably it´s you and your thoughts!
No distractions.
Just you and the doubts in your head- Is this what you want? Are you doing a good job at it? What is beyond this and getting all sorts of existential crises just before another week is about to begin. Do you have the energy for all this? All over again? Anew. And at the same time not.
It feels like ones of those pauses, where nothing is being said, in some senses like a tiny fraction of Vipassana and you have been left in a place, not allowed to speak but only to ponder. To be with yourself. To be yourself.
There is no particular nuance or perspective or advice coming at the end of this string of paragraphs, simply a diary of attempting to express this deafening silence of a Sunday evening, the simple joy of writing after ages, the exhilaration of relating to other people's experiences and the sheer fear of not nearly being understood.
Somewhere in between, is the joy of collective existentialism which is possibly the only pleasure that emanates from this whole Shabang!
Isn´t it? Perhaps not.
