this sunday

This day, which seems like any other day but weekends. This day, which appears as deserted yet sunny. This day, on which children are supposed to play outdoors. This day, which looks so fine with a book in my hand. This day, which belongs to the autumn and yet reminiscent of something subtle, something that shines. This day, which is so calm, brings with itself the joy of living, the happiness of loneliness. This day, like snowy days, is so comfortable with its soundless being. Just being there to be looked at and be experienced. This day, this sunny day, this Sunday... It is the impression that fuels my thoughts, it is this fleeting atmosphere that gives way to ramifications and speculations about childhood, adulthood. This day, that slows down, minute after minute in order to actually stop the time altogether.