Something makes a Sunday evening stand out. Is it the reflection of the week ahead— I wonder — or is it the rest and all thinking in perspective, without the bias that time is against one’s plans? Or, maybe, can we call it a clean slate? Or the illusion of starting over?
Alas, all right.
Isn’t it true that, as humans, we are on a quest to understand why we are where we are, how we came to be, and our place in the universe? But can it be without a drive that pushes us to look forward?
Even without thinking about it, Sunday offers an immense reflection on our little selves. Its evenings erase much of its memories but, against all odds, we keep remembering.
So we carry that little peace of mind we have derived from these quiet moments onto the following days; on everything we touch and the people we decide to talk to—with the expectation that a better quality of ourselves will be achieved.
Almost certainly, though, only the sunsets can tell. Tonight’s wasn’t the same as yesternight’s, feeding onto our fascination of things we see everyday but don’t understand quite fully.
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