Sundays Are Fantasies, Verging On Prayer

Sundays are for lovers, which explains why I am sitting alone at the cafe with only the company of my sixteen-dollar salad and an 18th-century serial killer (Perfume, Patrick Süskind). Sundays are for sleeping in, waking up next to your favorite face in the whole world, and making any excuse to stay in bed for just a couple more minutes. That’s probably why I wake before the rooster crows (an exaggeration of sorts, but dramatics are sometimes necessary) and roam the empty streets with nobody but the lusty croak of Stevie Nicks in my ears. 

No, I wouldn’t say I’m bitter about it all. Admittedly, lonely sometimes. Envious, even. But I try my best not to be bitter about it. Sundays are for lovers, and my current romantic pursuits just happen to live in the books I read, the words I write and in my solidarity. Is it by choice, though? That, I still do not know. No surprise there; there is still much that I do not know (I know nothing, Oliver). But there is one thing I know for certain, and it’s that Sundays are for lovers. 

Sundays are for walking arm in arm, your hand that fits perfectly in the crook of their elbow, and despite the summer heat, you still long for the warmth of your favorite person. Though my hands remain empty as I stroll the city streets, I like to imagine the breeze taking on the form of palms and interlacing with my fingers, a rekindled connection to the world around me. Sundays are for quiet conversations, sometimes a meaningless exchange of words but that’s okay because the sound of their voice just so happens to be your favorite song. I speak to no one, but the melody of utensils scraping on plates and bowls and the hissing of the espresso machines are trying to tell me something. I speak to no one but listen closely.

All is good, they whisper. All will be good. 

Sundays are for cooking dinner together, sultry jazz crowing in the background as your pasta boils on the stove. It’s for slow dancing in the kitchen and sure, you might look a little silly, but your favorite place to be on a Sunday night is in the arms of the person you love. My favorite place to be on a Sunday night is anywhere that keeps me untethered to the actual world. Getting lost in the lyrics of a newly discovered song, burying my nose into a book I can’t put down. I am distracted by the movie playing on my laptop as I scramble to prepare the ingredients for my single-dish supper. While others find solace at the dinner table, knees touching their favorite houseguest, marveling over the delicious meal they created together, I begin to retreat into myself, turning up the volume on anything that will drown out the melancholic thoughts that begin to creep in. I think of it as an act of self-preservation. Oh, how misguided I am. My dear, that is called loneliness.

I am constantly teetering on the edge of simply being alone and feeling a harrowing loneliness. And it’s funny because every time I feel myself drift into the territory of wallowing, of self-pity, I lapse into a period of pathetic self-isolation. Often from friends, from people who actually care about my well-being. Most often, it happens on Sundays. How silly. I know that it’s cruel to be so pessimistic, but seeking optimism scares me. In my solitude, I am afraid to think of better days, of a fantasy that I could have, places I could live, and people I could meet. I bask in idiotic daydreams, convincing myself that these constant reveries are a form of manifestation for a better life. Sundays are for lovers; for me, Sundays are for dreaming. 

I am trying. My goodness, am I trying. Sundays are for lovers. For me, Sundays are for picking up the pieces and putting myself back together, hoping that this week I am a little better, that this week I am a little more whole. There is so much violence in reconstruction, and I can’t do much but hope that I am building towards something that cannot break again. Sundays are for lovers, but nobody is in love with me. Yet, the world keeps spinning and life moves on. I continue to tear myself apart in an attempt to put myself back together. The pieces clang together like metal, reverberating around the yawning chasm of my unpredictable future. It echoes down the empty tunnel and back to me, like a boomerang. It resounds clearly in my ears.

All is good, they whisper. All will be good.