Drinking on a Sunday

Some days it seems like I can see forever.
Like I can really see the world rolling through space
and the sun sits still while I spin past it.
On those days the air is warmer, the breeze smells sweet,
and from that wide angle, life looks longer than today.
I see so far ahead that there are people I haven't met yet,
places I haven't been, feelings waiting in the distance for me to catch up.
It feels like there's a chance.
Some days I'm an optimist.
Today is not one of those days.
Today as I lay in bed I see the first hints of a grey dawn peek it's way through my closed curtains. Today the dawn is hesitant, it takes hours to get light, like the sun already knows the clouds are going to block it's whole path until dusk and it questions the importance of even rising at all. Eventually, pulled by force of habit alone the day begins, casting a cold damp light. This cosmic microcosm of my very life spurs me to roll over and pull my stubborn blankets over my head. Sundays used to be so bright. The irony of the name of the day and the weather at present isn't lost on me, the day itself was. These 24 hour patterns of light and dark, warm and cold, sleep and awake that have been going on forever seem to go through elastic turmoil depending on my mood. Good day = short, bad day = long. As if it were that personal. On these long days my view is particularly short, like tunnel vision, peripherals cut off, everything is dim forms I have trouble recognizing. The only things I can see are rent, money, cold, lonely, distance, bills, hunger and clutter. I never bother to shower on long days; why clean myself outside when I can never reach the grime inside? Food seems pointless, I don't talk, I barely move.

It's raining again. Sometimes I think the world is trying to drink itself to death.
The world wishes it could rain liquor.