Sunday evenings are the reminders that you have to go back to work; to the job you hopefully love and could possibly retire with. Sunday evenings are the subtle anxieties you feel in your chest because you don’t want the fun times to end…but you know they must. Sunday evenings are like this oeuvre, brief but filled with underlying and implicit themes. Sunday evenings are for vaulted memories.
They’re for recapping 3 am conversations about time together and time apart, but not completely fulfilling because time well spent is never enough.
Sunday evenings are for remembering the shots thrown and taken, for the “did I really just say I missed you? WTH are you thinking J?”, for the sarcasm and battle scars. They’re for ventures never wasted, often appreciated, and yielding.
Sunday evenings when given to lifelong learners, build courage to leave no words left unsaid. After enough Sunday evenings, you learn that time is indeed limited and to seize the moment. Hold on for as long as he’ll allow, because weekly responsibilities sometimes turn into years of unaccountability, which reluctantly becomes accepted and pardoned as adulting. Sunday evenings result in the closure of moments to rest, recharge, and live, but they always come back around. Sunday evenings never quite end. They’re bittersweet but something you always look forward to… He's dangerous.