And indeed Sunday, a day of rest.

I have always had rather contradicting thoughts about Sundays. Honest to say, I am one who detest the idea of work and the end of Sunday beckons the beginning of a week long of possibly mindless toiling at the computer desk. Natural to say, I ain't looking forward to it.

Whenever Sunday comes, it sort of leaves me with a dread and a feeling of helplessness and finality in the pit of my stomach. Am I ready for the new week? Have I rest justly or have I simply squander away what little energy that barely feeds me? I happen to also be the one with many questions. Questions I have no doubt will answer themselves when the next Sunday arrives.

I often take the opportunity to keep myself stuck in the loop or laspes of being conscious and not. Taking little naps, staying in my room all day, not speaking a single syallbi if I don't have to and running my thoughts wild about the things I could have achieved if I only had the spirit to act upon them. Again, I found a need to defend my worthlessness.

Sunday, like the dark before light, should fill one with hope but not mine. Although, it does let me take refuge in make-believe dreams, a world I have subconsciously created with the whims of my mind to ease my soul. But it does not constitute a legitimate reason to spend what could be a glorious day not doing anything. I should indulge myself in creativity, drink in the company of my Muse, if only she so exists or simply take off in a heartful stride towards nothing and everything. But instead, I chose to stay in the confines of a room and a jail made of human flesh. I ought to be ashamed of myself but this is me. And one I would accept at this point in time.

I yearn to be in company sometimes, to be in the arms of a loved one. To embark on a journey of discovery as I look into her eyes, deciphering one shade from another. To hold her hand and put it gently across my still beating heart. To meet lip and lip in a sensual kiss of utter romance or to simply sit in silence.

I am in too much of a hurry to please myself, twisting truths to fit my own moulds and bending conversations so they will fill my head with false melodies. I can't possibly defend myself any longer. I've let my demons consume me. I wish all is not lost for I imagine that any shreds of hope I have will sustain me.

So take heed; whether you will spend your Sundays caught up in the senselessness yet familial comfort of your wretched mind or spend them however you do, spend your Sundays truthfully, for it is a beckoning of new beginnings.