Saturdays and Sundays

Two of my favourite-st days of the week, any week. I get by from Mondays to Fridays day dreaming about the Saturday Sunday to follow. I cannot pin point the one quality that makes me long for them. Maybe it’s the nothing scribbled on my canvas for those two days, maybe it’s the sharing of that nothingness, the doused in nothing to do together-ness that appeals to me. These are bare and simple days, stripped off the everyday tasks that parade themselves in all important clothes and wear badges of seemingly utmost significance. But my days, well, they carry no tags, they are pointless in their existence and therefore, of utmost significance to me. I thrive on nothing, no pointers, drifting with the wind kind of navigatory rules steer me, wake me up and make me take interest. The not knowing about the next stop makes the journey thrilling and not just the destination intriguing. It is enjoying these empty days, bereft of purpose, that make me connect to myself. I like staying in touch with me. And all the noises of life and its chores, can drown my inner voice. I lose myself in the din. But, then on quieter days like these, the connection sometimes is re-established and I can hear you, the you inside of me. And I like that.