Sundays are slow days that remind me with each passing hour that I should keep track of time. With constant deadlines, meetings, endings and beginnings I need to learn that mere minutes can expand into entire lifetimes. Forget smelling roses. My weeks are a blur of typed copies, gulped coffees and the occasional salute to youth in the form of weekend romps. There's a disconnect I'm not used to, between my thoughts and my actions. I make wishes at 11:11 and forget what they were by 11:12. I don't so much follow through as carry on.
This un-day feeling is not a novel one but with each passing birthday (my last actually landing on a Sunday) it becomes harder and harder to shake. I miss home, where I could taste the sea salt in the air, and I could hug my littlest sister until she protested.
I woke up late today, even though I spent the night before in with a borrowed DVD. My eyelids lifted at noon, and it took a considerable amount of effort for my body to follow suit. My mother called for the weekly report and the best I could offer was "same old. it's snowing though." She wasn't impressed. I concur.