Saturdays alone are for boundaries. To step around the shit laid on the sidewalk like breadcrumbs leading to more shit. Know what the sabbath is good for? Nothing. That’s why the seagulls mew less. It’s why it’s usually breezy. The wind blows your heavy thoughts away. The scents of the blue sky weighing on you like the duvet that kept you warm when you were six.
The pace is supposed to be slow. A flirt that seems to last a lifetime. Don’t rush into the night. Saturdays are for savoring the morsels of the week. Do you ever see an old Portuguese man, under a beret on a plastic chair, doing anything but looking everything God has created? Watching the whole world shuffle about. That’s wisdom. The only agenda is to observe. Don’t even listen. He lets it all pass through.
And here we are, on another Saturday. A bottle of vinho branco down. Wondering which castle party you’re going to. I’d rather drown – the worst kind of death – than be forced to inhale another note of some “musician” blasting my heart into an irregular beat.
Maybe I’m just an old man.
By the sea, on a Saturday. Empathetic with my solitude, unmatched to any other day. This is the point – to find a paradise once a week in which the only disturbance is hunger and tiredness. Restless only for an escape from modernity and mediocrity.
Or maybe, on Saturdays especially, I’m just a child, like Knausgård says, unable to distinguish between myself and the seagulls.
