Oh, Thursday. The longest day, always, somehow. In the radio days, it was the show that started at 6 a.m, the first bus that ran. In night school days it was long on the other end, dark lonely walks home.
It’s long on the other end again, the Thursday that starts early and ends late. But the Thursday is usually the Friday of the week, the last be-at-a-place day. Not this Thursday. This Thursday is just a Thursday.
Friday-Thursday is staying up a little later, winding down from the last push of the week, of the long relentless day, some space to fully retreat, refresh, recalibrate.
Thursday-Thursday is an unpack/repack/sleep day. It’s a list of tasks without reprieve. Perhaps shower, but no lingering.
The brief space left at the end of Thursday is begrudgingly sacrificed to an early Friday, earlier than usual, dreaded morning creeping closer.
This Thursday is a thief of words, of time to put them together, of the respite needed to go beyond the simple facts of what is. The day. The task at hand. The mechanics of what’s next. The mundane.
Oh, Thursday. You’re overdue for bed.
AnaChips 