the peculiar melancholy of fridays

It's Friday. Fridays are for classical music, for long verbose poems about the inherent misery of the human race, for steaming cups of tea I only ever think about making. For a lot of people, Fridays are partying and going out days. But for me, even when I do venture out, the mood is still penetrated by a peculiar feeling of, well, perhaps melancholy is the best way of putting it.

Friday evenings invariably find me rather nostalgic and wistful. There's always been something inexplicably sad about this time of the week and I don't know why. They're lonelier than any other time, for me, maybe because they're less busy and the free time gives me time to think. And I'll never be able to explain how but that inevitably leads to the pondering of how small and large and simple and complex and overwhelming incomprehensible our absurd lives are.

It's the small moments that play over and over that make me feel this way. Friday afternoon, walking home, watching the neighborhood kids running barefoot through the sprinkler and remembering when that was me. Friday night football games in the fall, sitting in the bleachers, listening to the marching band as stadium lights puncture holes in the night sky. Friday, after dark, looking through old pictures and feeling sentimental, so sentimental it almost hurts. Friday bus rides home, the windows down, wind blowing in my face, listening to the boys across from me talk about football. Friday nights, laying in bed, listening to music, feeling the world spinning around me.

I'm not sad. Please don't think that. I'm quite content right now. Sometimes I just...I listen to a song or I read a piece of writing and I just sort of fall into that emotion, you know? I won't pretend like it makes sense.

To end on an up note, some things that make me happy right now: high fives, ice cream socials, seeing Ingrid Michaelson last Tuesday, buying new music, friend requests, No Pants Day.