The sound of the light breeze swirling the air hitting my window.
The sunlight beaming through the glass reflecting on my face, filling the room with light and energy.
The muffled sounds from outside, of screaming children and parents laughing, as they stroll through the autumn leaves that crunch under their steps.
Sunday.
Sunday is a burden.
Sunday is one of the crumpled fallen leaves from the autumn trees that get stepped on and tossed around by the cool wind and the thousands of busy feet passing through the streets.
Sunday.
Sunday we neither dislike nor like, but rather we don’t care for it, like the beat-up test I aced years ago, decked away in the far corner of my desk.
Sunday is a placeholder, reminding us we would wake up and have to repeat our weekly cycle.
It never changed.
Whether you have school, work, or simply nothing. Every day was the same, a reflection of the next. It didn’t feel like a weekend. Nor did it feel like a weekday.
Sunday is special.
Sunday reminds us of our week, our life, and the work we have to do so we don't fall behind in class during the week.
Sunday is a mirror, reminding us of what's ahead through its vibrant reflection.
Sunday is different.