I’m not particular with days. There’s none I’m extra fond of. Like fashion, they come and go.
Other people I know get excited whenever Friday comes, but I just see it as it is- Friday. (Saturdays are Saturdays; Sundays, Sundays; and so on.) Maybe it’s because unlike them, I don’t go out ritually on Friday nights.
Dull? Not really. I just don’t like being trapped in a Friday-night-out-on-a-gimmick hoopla or don’t-mess-with-me-on-a-Monday grouch, for that matter. Except of late, when I became too anxious every Wednesday.
Wednesday has become The Day: my-only-class-this-semester-day.
Judgment Day. The verdict’s either weighed-but-found-wanting or impressive-carry-on. Also the day when I would mostly wish I could transport to Baclaran and walk kneeling to the Mother of Perpetual Succor.
Two days ago, in distress, a warm embrace would have been an absolution.
Ah, this load!