Sincerely cannot pinpoint the time Sundays turned into days of dread. Sincerely thought that hurdling through that which I’ve hurdled would have changed things. Did not know how: maybe the emptiness would not be so heavy, maybe a coming week would come with hope instead of this sickening, debilitating dread.
But maybe it is a sin to expect. Maybe the hubris was in thinking that hurdling through that which you’ve hurdled was supposed to solve things. Maybe meaningless! Meaningless! Everything is meaningless! But without the comfort of faith which comes afterward.
At this point, maybe this is yet another Kierkegaardian leap, another painful truth that needs to be suffered. Then again, maybe the theme is not always the hero crossing the threshold and returning after having become wiser. Maybe it is equally sinful to believe that there is progress, that this leap was supposed to bring something in. Maybe to expect is to demand, the thing with demands being that they tend to be negotiated with, but only depending on the power held by the other side, so if the other side is no less than transcendent, then who are you to even consider requesting compromise?
All of this might have been enriched by a reading, but the spirit is too burdened by dread tonight to interpret anything. The wind, the night, the plodding of time carry a weight that is too much for the soul, that one can only find respite in pseudo-anaesthetic dreams for so long, before one has to yet again wake into existence.
Left Hand, Write Hand 