Today I awoke heavy with the fog dropping down over our little streets. I did not rise but remained flat like the morning air. The clouds hung low, and my dog slept by my legs, lower than usual, resting against my feet fighting for a little space upon my bed. Aren’t Tuesdays a pleasure, a weekly occurrence, suspended in the middle of nowhere fighting for existence between Monday and weekly oblivion?
If I could be a day, I would be Saturday. I would make many happy, providing a well-deserved freedom, and existing without much immediate worry. But I am a Tuesday, a void safely sandwiched with work and responsibilities far heavier than necessary. The pressure mounting on each side, the squeezing hands ready to chew and swallow me far quicker than I anticipate.
Am I simply a window of time, a moment in the spectrum of existence, a unique occurrence, born and forgotten with each passing minute? Am I more unique than the last, setting the way for the future Tuesdays, to be lived without real worry in either direction? Do our days go from up to down? Or do they travel on a horizontal plane, strikingly similar with each passing hour and breath? Am I simply a Tuesday, no different than Wednesday but quickly and thankfully forgotten like most Mondays?
Must I be reminded that it is me that makes the day or must I fall to the mercy of the day, making me as it goes along and doing as it pleases? At night, I strap a blindfold across my eyes, spin, and fall into my bed. This time, I will awake upon another day that I will embody next. A good day, a bad day, an unnecessary day, an important day, but a day regardless, numbered and waiting.
Are you a day like me?