Connor Mac Writing

The whole idea of a day has all but ceased to exist. I mean you can still flip the calendar and look into the days of the future, but it doesn’t mean anything. Each day melts into the next, with no concept of itself. Like a prisoner of war conditioned to long bouts of torture, with their prospects of freedom and smiles all subject to the looking glass of past horizons or forever future afters. Days which use to hold immense emotion to each of us have faded past with a slide view.

 

Sunday with its rhythm of elegance, just idling along, like a plump summer’s dress. Delicately content in the eventual dance with the hips of its maker. Caressed by the idea that we don’t need her and she not need us. Sunday is anything as long as it’s not chosen.

 

On the contrary Monday bursts onto the weekly scene, faint sounds galloping round. You’d better hope you’ve readied yourself, pulled your socks up, sore yet sure and ready too straddle on. She gleams with perpetuated angst. Like a tyrant of the sweeping plains, she parades forward in an unstoppable notion of windswept oceans. When her alarm bells come ringing, you’d better hope you’re already singing, singing in tune, her tune, fingers flicking and eyes to the mind-bending sky.

 

Tuesday is a decompression of chambers and pearls. Ok I’m on the back of this great galloping working class horse. Now let’s take a look around and see what we can see, how endured is this weekly journey really going to be? You’re still early in the piece but you’re on and that’s the God damned short of it.

 

Wednesday breaks and you dust the sleep from your puffy, little eyes. It breaks to an almighty hump, a hump that’s grown onto your horses back. With air of a slight moan, she’s now a half-fledged camel with neck so strong and hoofs so wide. You’ve been transported to the sandy plains of North Africa as you gallop along with your half horse, half camel. She’s still got a mane so surely there must be some horse left in those veins. Her blue-blooded veins of weekly toil and glory. You spend all of Wednesday in a straight line, galloping the sands and waiting for the hump to vanish. It’s been a while, but reminiscent days tell you this hump knows only one day of the week.

 

It’s a hard day but long enough it’s over and you’re waking again to the sights of sand and hills of sand, wind whipping off the curled tops and stinging your eyes as you look out to the horizon stacked upon other horizons and know your feeling the end. You can’t see it, of course not, but by and gone you can feel it calling out your name. It sounds like a dream, like Denzel Washington is ordering your command, but it’s through a piece of string and you’re not exactly sure what movie you’re in. But on you run, you have become the horse now, you start to become the week as you begin to own it. By owning yourself and your future wildly planned plans.

 

It’s now Friday and you start to see the oasis of the weekend in your final horizon. It’s starting to show its outline, with mojito shaped trees and huge, towering hammocks stretched out between them. Maybe I can hang out there on Sunday? The week thinks. You think. You start to skip as you run, it’s an automatic thing, like a soft child who burns with exulted fever the first time it sets chase to a bird, only to realise that birds fly and unfortunately it does not. Still the chase is all you and the little child need and before too long the oasis of Friday afternoon is starving for your energy. It needs the billions of weeks to run toward it, to layer on top of it so that it can exist within our social realms, our determined minds and succeed at being the apex oasis of the desert dusty week.

 

You arrive, shaking off the crusted dust of the week, witnessing the weekend jubilance already in full animalistic swing. other weeks are diving off of coconut trees, diving deep down in through the cascades and everglades of beer and wine, music echoing off the thick green walls of flesh and growth. All life being sustained by this imagined oasis is buzzing. Buzzing like a thousand juvenile bees getting back to their hive and Queen, flapping their invisible wings with enough force to deafen even the roundest of ears. We stay elevated above the desert for two glorious days of much needed freedom. It’s in this belief of oasis and desert that our rituals of the week are constructed on. We yearn for the oasis while starving ourselves through life in the desert. It’s a game of cat and mouse, this lopweighted pendulum of the week. The weighted side always chasing the freedom of the weekend, the times spent as leisurely as one can bare too dream in.

 

In this current climate of crisis, the oasis has vanished round the corner of time, bending back into the imagined reverie of our weeks. The desert has become our only playground and it’s begun to stretch out way beyond our perceived future. We are in the thick of these uncertain sands. They shift with the slightest breath of new winds, forming in ways only they know how. Ploughing forward through these dusty times, with cracked lips and sore feet is every human and their oppressed week. Forming hope and trust through the spiritual waves of belief. Swarming, swarming to form is all we’ve got left to righteously express in. We are the fate of us all. The oasis of freedom will return, and when it does, undoubtedly, it will thrive with even more elated flavour and incessant spark.