Sundays well-spent feel strangely long, don’t they?
And yet, they contain as many minutes as any other day. Sundays are as long as Mondays, and that’s a fact. But hey, the Universe cares little for human concepts like weekends, in that way.
And yet, it doesn’t ring quite true.
In reality, Time flows in a warped way: too little, then too much, the distribution is never quite even. I’m of the mind that not all minutes respect the 60-second mark. Some minutes spill over like overly-eager orators, others quit halfway through. At least, that’s how it feels like.
The thing about Sundays, though, is that Time suddenly stops dead.
“Do what you want, I’m gone. You can live a while without me.”
Time tacks this note on a dusty window in a street you will never find except if you’re looking for it. It’s a funny place, my city. It’s so small. The streets churn many of the same faces in and out —in the supermarkets, the health centres, the street corners where newspaper vendors make a living… and yet. And yet she holds so many secrets, has so many pockets in which she hides foreign things: strange organisations that have existed for a long time, people of decidedly foreign origins, the secret life in city hotels… There’s a distinct smell of the unknown pervading the cityscape.
But you can only feel it on Sundays, the day when my city has been rid of its people, when the wind meets no obstacles as it runs, breathless, in the streets. Under the sleepy warmth of the sun, people melt gently. They loosen up, their jaws slack and eyes slow to blink. A lethargy has crept silently over them.
No one but the usual suspects inhabit the streets: old men wearing vests that open too generously on hairy chests, sitting on makeshift benches or leaning against a wall, making a row about the latest news and non-stories. A few children, not yet brainwashed by phones and other electronic devices, take advantage of the empty streets to run barefoot on the bitumen or to ride their flashy bikes.
Time has left, causing the world to unravel in slow motion in its absence. The vacated streets tell a story only the quietest can hear.
There is something of infinity that touches this world then, a moment that just is, that creates itself. Beyond the flow of Time and other such boundaries, the streets glitter with a unique magic, sighing into the eternising afternoon.
The afternoon is the space between two breaths — the momentary stillness between the inhale of morning and the exhale of night.
And there, right there, the barriers blur.
Reality bleeds into fantasy, the hands of the clock disappear and under one sky, moments past and the visions of tomorrow all come together.
In that moment of utter disarray, where all things shift out of their axes and vacate their roles, unruly now without Time’s watchful glare…
Note: So it’s been a while, yet again! I hope you have been doing well 💚 Also, I think it’s the first time I’m doing this: posting an unfinished piece. Truth is, it’s an old one but I can’t seem to find the continuation of this story — not in my notebook and certainly not in my head. But I’m fond of it, so here’s to hoping the rest magically comes to me as soon as I’m done publishing it 😂
2 thoughts on “Sundays, in essence.”
It’s beautiful and feels complete ❤️
Love how pitch perfect yet unpredictable your pieces are. The delightful blend of imagination to draw out an essence of reality that lies hidden in plain sight
There are so many stories within you, waiting for their own time to be told – in a uniquely lilting voice
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As always, you are far too kind, Ananda. Thank you ever so much for taking the time to read and to share your thoughts, I truly appreciate it ✨