sunday sickness


is it just me, or do you find Sundays often fill you with melancholy, or a sense of loss?  i often feel bereft, like i am yearning for something that i know i will never find.  i will never find it because i don’t know what it is that i ache for.   this happens only on a Sunday.

i don’t know why i feel overcome by these emotions on any given Sunday because i am happy.  happy in health, happy in life and happy in love.

maybe it’s the weather.  maybe it’s this time of year, when the coming festive season fills me with longing for loved ones lost.

this entry is retrospective.  it happened a while back… in September.   a dour, sour-tasting Sunday, when even the sky seemed bereft.

i was taking a bus to Leven – to visit my love.  he had not been well, nothing too serious, just under the weather.  this day, i knew exactly how he felt.  the weather can have a real impact on our emotions and wellbeing.

“what was up with the sky today?” i thought to myself.  did the sky have a story to tell?  was it lonely?  sad?  rain clouds gathered, like the lump in my throat.  this day, i felt sad and lonely.

a gloomy day.  i needed to see his face, to see that he was ok.  i missed his face and his smile. that smile. that perfect smile.  it had only been a few days since i last saw him but it felt like a month. a month of rain and emptiness.  i felt as sad and sullen as the lead-bellied sky above me.

the bus passed through the charming little village of Coaltown of Wemyss, then pressed on through East Wemyss –  a route i know so well.  i willed the bus to pick up speed.

out to my right, i could see the sea.  even the sea looked grey and mournful, as though it were drowning in its own mirth and self-pity.

the bus finally arrived in Levenmouth and headed down through Lower Methil – its oil platforms and giant wind turbine dwarfed its surroundings: terraced houses with hugely optimistic washing ropes, wet and laden.  washing ropes bowing with the weight of laundry that was never going to dry. washing ropes and washed-up hopes.  Faded signs and shuttered-up shops, bedecked with graffiti, remain a permanent sign of the times, of economic decline, and a rage that will not be shut up. Gardens with neglected boats dry-docked in driveways. Oh these dreams of sailing away. now these hopes and dreams are battered and peeling, as dry-docked as the boats themselves.  a stray dog cocked its leg and pissed against a hand-painted YES sign, now faded, nailed to a fence post. both dog and sign looked jaded like this part of town.  like life.  was this art imitating life imitating art…?  it would be one fucker of an installation to celebrate a constipated nation.

and the children.  i watched them chuck stones at the bus.

“and this is a new generation” i thought.

but hey, we live in hope.


(c) Kat McDonald 2015

– some good soulfood and loving always heals the sick. ❤


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