Everyday feels like Sunday
One thing I’ve always envied about people who write well is their ability to capture feelings I’ve never been able to express. I remember experiencing this with "Catcher in the Rye," with "Dookie," and with the tone of many Murakami novels. It's a strange feeling: relief, because someone else feels the exact same way (there’s no comfort in being a statistical outlier) and yet frustration: why was this person able to express it when I could not?
This exact same feeling resurfaced for the first time since I started this blog because of Jedda’s post, "When Every Day Feels the Same".
It's funny because one of the reasons I chose this job was precisely because I expected the news cycle to be less predictable. I remember seeing any new project as an opportunity to do something good, something big—or at least something that tried to be good and have an impact on my readers. That’s what being a journalist meant to me.
Maybe it’s the silly season. Maybe it’s just some news fatigue (I’m preparing a post on that). Maybe it’s because I see so many people quitting their jobs at my newsroom that I ask myself: will I be the one turning off the lights?
Sometimes I have nightmares where I am in the world portrayed so well by Noel Bowler’s book, "Above the Fold".
Or maybe Morrissey was always right: "Every day is like Sunday / Every day is silent and grey."
I hope he is wrong because I truly hate Sunday evenings.