Sundays and Mondays

I have lost this sense of self and a management of time, like it combed through my hair and went adrift, swaying away to the beckoning of misty roads that most people will not journey into. Out there is a metropolis my mind begins to wander absentmindedly as it pounds achingly into the cushions of my pillow at around 3 a.m.. The sky, I imagine, is the ceiling I’m afraid will cave in and arch towards me until it crushes every bone in my body. There is no sun, it is only pores of dark that blanket this reimagined reality. It is the “new normal” I imagine and think that there was no yesterday, no today, nor a tomorrow, while I plaster myself to the invisible outside setting I see in my home. An invisible car honking at the billions of people ambling across streets, streets that are interconnected and encompassing businesses, businesses that boom and flourish with single file lines rushing in and out, single file lines that transform to dispersing ants walking back to their homes, homes that have become occupied with familial, reflective, and lethargic patterns that will repeat without anyone asking them to. There are perfunctory celebrations that unite tethered connections, but it isn’t enough to aid the fear that dwells in everyone’s stomach pit.

Fear is acidic. It burns everyone, boils their blood, and sometimes cements a justification to wrong someone who isn’t even at fault. Sometimes it shifts into pride for the minority who think it unfair to be chained inside, like death chambers do not exist and death rates a mythical persona sent out to protect what should be classified. If numbers could transform into incarcerated skeletons, they would know that their rulers were not lying, and perhaps stop the foolish protest that stems from their undeserving and irrational egos. To me, it is when the niceism culture stops when the entire country faces the adversity of being stagnant. They are impatient and unrealistic that the glut of information they procure and storage from myriads of exaggerating media have become the answer, the vaccine, to their problems, those being their right to kill another thousand, another million, for their own benefit. They threaten those who work with the tip of their swords and with the slip of their clear-cut tongues, beating them with a xenophobic diction that is not synonymous with a patriotic one. One misconstruction leads to another, and a destructive mistake is all it takes to ruin a united empire into smithereens. Their one and only King takes away the resources his people need, employs his hate in the form of oratory expressions that can powerfully snap another Kingdom to the extent that they will not aid him, and lastly does not pay heed to his advisors when absolutely needed.

The houses have watched their lives fall apart and do not recognize the sun that slowly arises behind them. Branches of a new world stretch so far into the stratosphere, and they still feel like they are underground, depressingly spreading downward instead of extending upward with the galaxies unbeknownst to them. Their opportunity is still there, waiting, but time to them is a fiction novel until they are allowed to enroll outside of their houses. It is saddening and frustrating to hear stories upon stories that indicate how wasteful they are; they throw away the things that may have had sentimental value, they chuck away the obligations they are delegated to do, they blame and play and rely on their preconceived notions — most of which are bad — on their circumstances to be the utter truth of their circumstances. That may have made no sense, the way they think it is nonsense to stay at home, because it has flouted their luxurious wants. They have had no balance of the self, which is what I’m trying to figure out now.

I found myself to be an intriguing and optimistic beacon who wishes to further understanding of anything that is confounding. Like, say, a puzzle. Sometimes I think I have pegged my own character, only to lose it again when I reflect, and then I reflect again. Certainty followed by another question followed by another hypothesis — that is the process by which I, and most people, live by now. Except for me, I wonder still. Is it so bad to wonder awake already by 5 a.m.?

I always think that I have found a new purpose and thought by Sunday, readying my stance to fulfill it for the week, and maybe for a year, but then I discover something new by Monday — and I’m already prepared to make new resolutions instead. With the metropolis platforms blown by storm, a new one forms, sometimes with a little less fog and sometimes with more, but these are just make-believes I wish manifested sooner than later. By 5 a.m. Monday, something new emerges, whether that be a new social or political structure, a corrupted trend, or a stressful workload, whatever the case may be, which all the more stifles that development because then I would be questioning what I had planned out in detail. And before I know it, I lose everything again — I lose the track the train must go as it is completely fueled, amounting to a greater problem I thought I had the solution to.