The days of the week have no significance. Time is all relative anyway. But today I am wondering if maybe all Thursdays have some similar element: smell, a subtle cant to the ground we walk on, the way the light shines through the trees, some wobble of the earth’s axis occurring only on the fifth spin. But then the week would necessarily start on Sunday. And, truly, neither Sunday nor Thursday exist. They are just agreed upon words in our constructed reality that have facilitated a great deal of human cooperation and societal development. Thank heavens!
And yet there is no Thursday. Time is independent of shape, beginning or ending. How quaint our clocks must seem to anything omniscient.
I am emotional today. I am disappointed by this. Which just adds to the gentle background strain. Low-level worry, like when an impeccably punctual friend is late. Generalized pall, like the lingering pain of a particularly tragic news story. And some confusion and wonder that such gloom should visit me at all, without reason.
So I wonder if it’s Thursday. Was I like this last Thursday? Is Thursday the catalyst of bush-league dolor? Is Thursday pitiful? Can’t be. Thursday doesn’t exits.
So probably my wings have just flapped too many times this week already. They’re laden with pollutants, sticky and itchy. Heavy from use and toxicity, they droop.