I hadn’t intended to make this such a frequently reoccurring thing, but it has become that. So much of what happens is not intended and then it becomes a thing in the world. I don’t know what it is about Sundays that imbues them with so much darkness. The fact that it’s the end of the week? The beginning of a new week in which things will be essentially the same as the last? I don’t know. I do know I’m not the only one to experience this. I’ve had several people tell me they experience the same thing. Though I wonder if others experience it as strongly or as frequently as I experience it.
I sit here in my house. Waiting for Sunday to be over. Filling it with dark instrumental soundtracks to drown out the silence I can’t bear while I read House of Leaves. Silence used to mean boredom, maybe contemplation, maybe a space between somethings that weren’t silence. Now it means fear. Of being alone with my thoughts. Being aware of my thoughts. My thoughts as things. I know those thoughts. They are not new. But I can’t bear to be with them. They are loneliness. They are the inability to eliminate that loneliness. Only push it away for a few hours at a time. But it always returns. And so begins another week.