Sunday Blues
- marissarotolo13
- Jul 27, 2025
- 2 min read
By Marissa Rotolo
I feel it most when the sun starts to set, and I have to switch on the big light. Like the ending credits of a glorious film and your brain can’t help but wonder what next?
A Bon Iver song, beautiful but tragic all in the same breath.
Sunday blues are a feeling of nostalgia that rips at the deepest parts of the soul. Like the feeling of being in a crowded room, laughing, sulking in pleasure, only to go home alone at night and stare at your ceiling in silence. Wondering about all the embarrassing things you might have said, and how towards the end you can totally feel everyone start to get annoyed with you. Right?
But what truly makes a Sunday the most blue is the feeling of time passing. All the moments of the week seem to crescendo and then break in one quiet night, leaving you to wonder how you manage to take time for granted again and again. That’s the cruel magic of Sunday: it brings you home to yourself, whether you’re ready or not.
The room is warm but still. You’ve got one sock on, a coffee cup half-full from hours ago, The TV asks if you’re still watching, and you’re not even sure. It’s not dramatic—it’s just dull in the way that makes your chest ache a little.
It’s not tragic, it's just painfully true.
A reckoning with what once was a quiet decay. It’s your brain confronting all the things you wish could be different in the form of dirty dishes, clothes on your bedroom floor, and leftovers sweating on the counter. The world is winding down, but your thoughts are winding up.
There’s always a good movie to watch, or a book to read, or a fragile kind of hope for the version of yourself you might finally meet next weekend. But Sunday knows better. She always does.
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