Friday is the most unusual of all the days of the week. It is the penultimate day before the weekend. Everything ends on a Friday: the rush, the frustrations, the expectations, the wickedness of work. They end, at least temporarily, on a Friday.
Friday is neither part of the work week nor the weekend. It is somewhere in between. This is probably the reason why we feel so lethargic when Friday comes. It’s like we’re working while tasting the sweetness of the weekend at the tip of our tongue. The day is a transition from here to there, from files to TV marathons, from coffee to beer, from the office to the park, from our stiff work clothes to our loose outdoor clothes, from pain to pleasure, from colleagues to family. We’re working while we’re heading home on a Friday. We’re being slaves to our bosses while we’re setting ourselves free on this very unique day. In a way, everything ends and starts on a Friday.
It is the day we reflect on what transpired the whole week. Did we do good at work? Were we productive or lazy? Did we meet new people, establish new contacts, or did we remain stagnant and alone? Thoughts like these will assail us on our ride home. We summarise our existence on this day, compressing everything that had happened and cramming it into our memories. As we step out of the train or the bus, we might smile or let out an exhausted sigh.
It is also the day when we try to imagine the future, what steps we should take to be something in this enormous and complicated world. Some of us see clear, wide paths while others only see thick thorny bushes ahead. There are so many things to think about on a Friday that it’s usually best to go through it with a bottle of beer in one hand. Many of us would feel something wrong when Friday ends without drinking. Perhaps it is because it is easier to achieve closure when we drink ’til we drop on a Friday rather than going through all the thoughts that drag our minds down; since, if we’d only look closer and turn off each thought one by one, we’d be horrified at how senseless we’ve become.
Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays – we keep on losing ourselves during these days. We build ourselves up for an imaginary purpose, become someone, something during these days. We put on a mask for an identity to show the world. As we rush to meet everybody’s expectations, we forget who we really are, what makes us complete human beings. We become dependent on the games we play as roses die by the wayside. Forgetfulness creeps up to us, and then it reaches our heads and settles there comfortably.
Death comes to us on a Friday. Closing our eyes from the rush to get to nearby bars, we should be able to witness ourselves dying on our deathbeds, hopelessly gasping for air. Desperately, we hope that an afterlife waits for us, an afterlife that will tell us who we really are and what we’re really supposed to live for.
Unfortunately, we will be disappointed because as our heart stops and we get reincarnated, we will live the same life over and over again. We’ll kill ourselves Mondays through Fridays and decide to commit the same sin for, apparently, we have no other choice.