Sunday Turnstiles

It was Sunday, the most boring and inanimate day of the week. The day were you would sit down and mentally recite the whole week and compare it to every single moment in your life. I couldn't help but to start journeying down memory land. I wandered down my own boulevard of regrets and achievements. This timeless dimension that was a figment of my imagination was occupied by every person and object that I had interacted with at some point in my life. I would pass by every face in a slow motion driven environment and salute those whom had brought my joy and extend my long finger to those who hadn't. It was a lot like watching those commercials for hair products, where some famous model walked down the street and got the attention of every male in her proximity. I was the centre of attention in this brainchild of mine.

Inevitable my journey took me to the end of the boulevard and to the junction of fate. This is where I stood know and pondered if the sum of all my failures were greater than my achievements. Every road departing from the junction was guarded by a turnstile that led into a misty oblivion. I knew if I once crossed one of the turnstiles, I would extend my boulevard and I wouldn't be able to regress to this conjunction. Only the sound of the wind and my heartbeat could be heard. Tumble weed and rogue posters saying “Future wanted – dead or alive” strayed by.

I was at a point in my life, where every single decision I made scared me. I wondered how others felt about this. Did their buttocks sweat? Did their interior monologue stutter and tremble with insecurity? Or was I simply a neurotic and social outcast? I would never find out.

These were the Sundays. The days that you hoped would never come, but ironically enough you couldn't live without. The days that contained an endless moment of decision-making to walk through a turnstile and cash my ticket for a destination that would drop me into an unknown tomorrow.

Edward T. Shufflebottom