Monday can be pleasant. You can find the joy in a monday morning, afternoon, evening, letting the hours move through you as the joy of the coming week builds.
Or, Monday can be horrible. Pablo Neruda writes,
“That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.”
There is as much made of mondays as is made of 4 AM as is made of many superstitions. China’s 4 and our thirteen and all the spaces in between where man is supposed to be fearful, or angry, or worn out. I think it can be a lot like the idea of God in that sense. We create meaning for the days and times and holidays and relationships. We extend our hands into the emptiness and hope something grabs us so that we may grab back and not feel so alone.
Mondays can be depressing as well. Mondays could be the day we stare deep into the week and think, “Can I make it through the next few days? Can I survive until the weekend?” Then that weekend comes and the cycle begins anew.
Luckily, I’m not that guy. I’m the guy who sees morning as a chance to start over and do something new, something different and interesting. Once, I decided to try a new word every week, writing that word into everything I could for the entire week and moving to the next word. It lasted a month and forced me to read into my giant dusty dictionary. It also felt kinda artificial, but kinda good at the same time.
That’s the thing about monday. It can be anything you imagine it to be. Monday is the embodiment of beginnings and opportunity and the dawn breaking thrill of possibility. Monday kicks Tuesday’s ass.