Sundays

Some days Sundays just wear me out.  Not because they are necessarily busy or hectic.  Nor because there are difficult things to do.

Simply because there is so much expectation associated with being able to do so much on the Sunday, and work is looming the next day, and yet, hardly anything gets done - regardless of how much actually does get done (which, on some days, is quite a lot), it is always that the expectation is never quite lived up to, and Sunday evening comes around and I feel sort of deflated and annoyed that yet another week has gone by without the masterful breakthrough in life.

a thousand meters of melancholy

I shall go to the store of the tailor of lovers, tomorrow;
Wearing my long robe made from a thousand meters of melancholy.
He can cut you off from Yazid and sew you onto Zayd;
he can pair you with this one and separate you from the other.
He can attach you to one to whom you give your heart for life;
What a fabric, what a stitch, what a miracle-making hand.

(Divan 216:1-3) -- Rumi