You may want to follow this writer. She’s a poet, playwright, screenwriter. Read this and tell me it doesn’t resonate.
Sundays, evenings especially, have a special gravity. On Sunday evenings, the world tilts a little, so that even the heaviest things in a life will shift off their foundations, and begin sliding towards the downward-most point of the tilt, collecting like beads of mercury there at the bottom.
When Sunday evening falls, sadness hangs heavy like surrender. Disappointments feel like disasters. Mistakes, like abject failure. Lonely takes on the appearance of abandoned, unworthy, unloved, doomed to a lifetime of Sunday evenings hung across your shoulders like a cement yoke.
It’s very important – vital – to keep reminding Sunday evening that it must play through, eventually, and eventually, it will. Then, the floor will begin to level out again. Life and circumstances will begin to feel less leaden, less deadly, less hopeless.
Hang on. The world of Sunday evening will pass. Hang on.