Sunday Feels

It is Sunday. Let me tell you how Sunday feels. 

Sunday feels like a McDonald's medium french fry and ice-cold Coke.

Sunday feels like a very heavy, scratchy grey blanket that I don't want touching me.

Sunday feels like a humid room with a barely functioning oscillating fan. 

Sunday feels like an all-too hot bath that you were dying to get into but five minutes later are dying to get out of. 

Sunday feels like a song you started writing but quit when you got to the chorus.

Sunday feels like the comforter you put in the dryer that you will purposefully forget about.

Sunday feels like the mess on the floor that is better suited for Monday's sense of purpose.

Sunday feels like an empty playground punctuated by the sound of a clanging flagpole.

Sunday feels like the ball you attempted to play with that you accidentally kicked out of reach.

Sunday feels like the tea you set aside to cool down but is now too cool and must be reheated.

Sunday feels like the excitement of wearing flip flops followed by the let-down of a chilly breeze.

Sunday feels like the shirt you want to wear so badly but never lays just right.

Sunday feels like the talk you will have with that good friend filled with long pauses. Those muffins you made, they weren't very good, were they? People are unreliable, aren't they? You don't want tomorrow to come. 

Sunday feels better in my head than it looks on paper. 

Restore to me the joy of your salvation. - psalm 51:12