Sundays

Back to the decade old pink brick house with it's clones stationed up and down streets in this generic suburban neighborhood. This place is so ridiculously dedicated to being noisy twenty fours hours, six times a week. Yes, every single day except for Sundays. Don't ask me why they choose to hold their tongues on this particular day, because I'll never know. I just love the fact that they do. A couple Sundays ago, I dubbed this my mental healing and cleansing day. A day for writing, relaxing, and catching up with family. It does me a good deed because I don't think anyone really knows just how much my mind is thinking in overdrive all week. It's exhausting and my thoughts usually get me down. Coming to this familiar pink house covered with flowers of all kinds of hues on all sides- it's an enormous relief for some reason. The weather is exceptionally perfect for sitting here writing with an old canine friend on my lap. I breathe this place into jagged lungs and let the weights lift. This place, despite the hardships endured here in the past, is one of healing now.