The Spirit of Sunday.

I really dislike the “Sunday feeling.”

There is something in the air, it would seem, that is there regardless of the structure of my week, whether or not it is my day off, the last remaining day of freedom before being once again shackled by the chains of the working week, or whether or not I am concerned with the opening hours of commercial establishments. It is just…an atmosphere, an aura, a veil that can be felt but not seen.  At least, this is the way I feel about Sundays. Of course, I look forward to them each week, but, whatever activities they hold, I always feel a sense of melancholy hanging in the air, which, were it weather, would at times feel like a slight Cornish mizzle, a light weight but a weight none the less, and at other times a grey, barren bleakness like the foreboding moors described by Daphne Du Maurier in Jamaica Inn.

Morissey for me described it perfectly in “Every day is like Sunday.” Both the song and the video seem to adequately illustrate this kind of emptiness. Perhaps it is that many people on Sundays have slowed down, as have businesses, and whether this directly affects us or not, the feeling can be found dancing lightly on the periphery of our senses. Perhaps it is due to the expectation and anticipation with which Sundays are held, a yearning for its misty grey which, once arrived, is ultimately dispirited in its discontent. Perhaps because in this Sunday silence, we find ourselves reflective, pensive, lost. I find myself questioning my purpose, my path; the heaviness which hangs in the air gradually seeping into my bones until I feel an intolerable weight upon my shoulders, a dull gloom spreading through my veins and filling up my heart. Until I feel an oppressive sorrow for the world, the plight of the earth and the distress of its people.

Perhaps it is left over despondency from the Sundays of childhood – the day before the return to school, an institution where we had no control over the moments of our day. Perhaps it affects those of us more who grew up in families ruled by orthodox religion. But, if I had never worked Monday to Friday weeks, had never attended school or church, would Sunday have the ability or power to affect me differently? Would its curse seep beneath my skin through its hold on the lives of those around me?

The Sunday blues are a common institution in this society at least. Whether its hold over us is an illusion, a phenomenon or a curse, it certainly feels very real when we are spinning, albeit sluggishly, within its vortex. As all things must change, as leaves fall and grow anew and mist gathers and clears over water, so perhaps will Sunday become a day of great meaning and significance in my life.

But today, I must say again, I really do not enjoy the spirit of Sunday.


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