Cynicism Rings In My Ears On a Monday Morning

On Sunday evenings, I am almost always melancholy.

I’m not sure what it is, but without fail, every Sunday night, I crave an intimacy that doesn’t exist in my life.

It’s the only time I allow myself to wallow, reminiscing on friendships I no longer have, voices I no longer remember, memories that are slipping further and further into the abyss of my mind.

I sink deep into my bed, melting between the sheets and my blankets, pretending my comforter is the warm body of someone I once loved. On Sunday nights, I believe that I still love them.

Something about this grief on Sundays is almost gratifying, like a reward after an overstimulating weekend. I let myself cry, shedding tears over heartbreak and loss that I have already healed from. I take a knife and reopen wounds that have already been stitched shut. I let myself bleed. The pain is comforting, wrapping itself around me like a warm hug from someone I once shared a life with.

Loneliness carves a hole in my stomach, and I can’t help but fill the emptiness inside me with envy for people who are able to spend this time with a companion. On Sunday nights, I play the victim. Why don’t they want me? Why don’t they love me? On Sunday nights, it’s always about me.

My melancholy bleeds into Monday mornings. It lingers in the back of my mouth like a bad aftertaste, and as I swallow, it transforms into cynicism that flows through my bloodstream. Pessimism is alive and well.

On Monday mornings, I shed my misery, revealing a thick layer of anger that simmers underneath. Anger at the world, anger at the people around me (the people who aren’t), anger at myself. This anger fuels me, and I am suddenly bursting with the want to leave behind everything and start fresh.

The remnants of my loneliness from Sunday night are now an air of solitude. On Monday mornings, I don’t want anyone. I don’t need anyone. All I have is myself, and I’m content with that.

As the week prolongs, my sardonic perspective slowly fades away. As Friday nears, hope blooms on the horizon, and suddenly all is right in the world. My heart is erupting with love for my friends. I am grateful for all the unique experiences I’ve lived and the lessons I have grown through. Anticipation tingles at my fingertips and my problems don’t seem to be as big as I once thought.

Renewal.

It’s a cycle that seems to repeat itself every week. I do not know why, but I also don’t fight it. It’s a rhythm that I’ve grown accustomed to; letting myself feel a full range of emotions within a seven-day period. A week. Maybe it’s the comfort of knowing what is just around the corner. Ah, yes. Sunday afternoon, when the sun dips low in the sky and the streets begin to empty out. I can feel the yearning creep in at the edge of my vision, the sadness slowly settling into my bones. I fall into it.

On Sunday evenings, I am almost always melancholy.