On the Loneliness of Sunday
Oh the loneliness of Sunday,
how it creeps up over the blankets and drowns out the sunrise.
I used to have somewhere to go, a person to distract me from the bleakness of a Sunday without family, without home.
Now there is nothing between me and the void,
I walk around the city, telling myself it's enough,
closing my eyes as I wait for the metropolitan line, suppressing the urge to jump.
I was robbed and everything feels taken.
I go to church but their words are hollow,
empty welcomes and a sea of cliques that confirms to me that we all seek something to drown out the sorrow.
I do not blame them, for I have done the same.
I ask God why I am lonely in His house,
why, on this day of rest I am so restless and full of anguish,
why, after years of investment, I am still walking the streets alone on a Sunday.
Why is there no where to go?
Why is there no one to belong to?
I thought the Kingdom of God wouldn't make me feel outside of it all, inside myself, exposed to the elements of the bleak.
My feet have walked me to the edge and then back towards the cinema,
a room that holds no promise other than distraction.
For surely other people want to die on Sundays or to skip them or to sleep them through.
I find myself alive on Monday, the darkness of the day before haunting me like an invisible enemy.
We need to solve the loneliness of Sunday,
because it's sacred because it's one out of seven days we're given,
but if I steady myself for a year full of Sundays,
nothing in me wants to keep living.