by Anna Vallarino
Fool who trusts in the future:/ who laughs on Friday,/ will cry on Sunday. Jean Racine, the Litigants, 1668
It is not a coincidence that the song Gloomy Sunday (also called ‘the song of the suicides’) -composed by the pianist Rezső Seress with the words of Laszlo Javor – was performed and loved by many authors and singers: such as Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Lydia Lunch, Marianne Faithfull, Elvis Costello, Leonard Cohen.
Sunday. Day of the Lord, the day of the rest, a day to celebrate. I hate Sunday. Especially if I want to do something. Going out on Sunday is a spectral experience. More people around, walking with not clear destination. People who wander and, for giving themselves a purpose, they eat more, drink more, smoke more.
On Sunday, everything is frozen, badly assimilated, everything is suspended
On Sunday, you realize that the party was not so beautiful as you expected and that nothing has changed, everything is the same. And after Sunday, as always, Monday comes.
Sunday is gloomy
with shadows I spend it all
My heart and I have decided to end it all
Soon there’ll be flowers and prayers that are sad,
I know, let them not weep,
Let them know that I’m glad to go
I would like to cancel Sunday, but that would not make sense: without Sunday, there wouldn’t be the hope of Saturday, nor the Monday, that, even if it is a shit for most, it leads to the light-heartedness of the following days.
I love Wednesday, so well-balanced. So real.