Life is like a continuum of weeks passing by, each composed of days, the most being involved in boring and tiresome drudgery like the weekdays spent at the office. You live the today somehow with no hope of a better tomorrow, you see the same stuff all around in the time to come by, you crave for that distant weekend where you plan to sleep, go out, take up your favourite stuff, see your loved ones, hog up your tummies, drink, dance and enjoy. Then emerges the ray of hope, like the hint of light that comes out of the cliff at the first glimpse of the morning sun, that shows you a brighter tomorrow that you had longed for. It’s called the Friday when, through the bars, you envision your freedom, you look up for that lovely Saturday and Sunday that materialises the purpose of your life and you look back into the past and challenge it because you know your days are imminent.
And finally the big day turns up, the SATURDAY, you feel like living it to the fullest, and forget all pains that made you sick and cry. You sit down and try to relax and fall back to retrospect the endeavours you imbued in those bad old days and how you challenged them to let yourself where you are today and suddenly you feel a sense of pride brimming up your chest inflating it like a super puffed soccer ball.
The day passes by but the excitement gets ported to Sunday, the day that reminds you of all those super heroes and cartoon stuff that you did in your early teething days, the day that reminds you of the congregated family breakfasts, the day that reminds you of vermicelli, potato sandwiches and milk shakes, the day that reminds you of amusement parks and theatres and the day that reminds you, rather haunts you of the coming Monday. Its the morning when you have tuned in to the radio savouring delightful music with the fresh warm tea and you have already sensed the danger, the danger of turning up the leaves of the old horrid days. But you ignore it and move on for a quick walk, followed by a shower and leading to the porches of your neighbour childhood buddy. You keep ignoring the feeling, and it keeps you haunting, and out of a sudden you realise that the inevitable has arrived. You prepare yourself for the catastrophe, tighten your belts, gird up the lions, polish your shoes and visualise yourself dressed like a gladiator moving into the the arena of the Colosseum, the next morning.
This is where life puts you into another Monday, filled with exertion and pain and drudgery and mess. You remember the gone by Sunday, the off that followed your today, you miss and badly miss the Saturday, the vibrant day with a secure tomorrow, and you still want to be solaced with Friday, atleast with a promise for a better tomorrow, but you fail to introspect your today that is same as any other weekday and this cycle of life goes on and on and on. You never talk about the period of those four days, those dreadful four days, that made you move your butts, flex your nerves, dance around, sweat and shag off. You never say a word about the extracts of inspiration coming out of the most industrious of your perspirations, the very perspirations that make you learn, imbibe and cultivate to let yourself stand on your feet, the very perspirations that make you earn your bread, and the very sweat beads that turn into silver spoons to feed yourself in the most lavish inns, sleep on the most comfortable mattresses, roam around, see your loved ones, hog up your tummies, drink, dance and enjoy, on those very craved Saturdays and Sundays that you long for, yearn for and live for.