Every sunday when the sun is all weary and mysterious, for is the last day of the week, I come to a realization that is the last time to take a seat.
A seat of relief for taking a chance at what life has yet for me.
A seat of patience to see what I aspire to be.
A seat of delightful pittiness, tracking down the last to see.
Every sunday I seek for comfort in what the treaserous hollowness left in the last day for me. Yet I find so much trouble to finally stay and believe.
There are rumours at the end of my rope that the birds will search for depression seeds, since the sun is not hot and happy as it used to be.
People talk as if I'm not here, and I'm so present as the time in our sleep.
I don't want to close my eyes and follow the path like some sort of sheep.
'Stop messing around and look for the different ways to live'.
There are people who still walk in the line to be free. And as soon as they fall and feel like they succumb into the void in hollow deep.
They recover and find the light to finish the sunday of another week.