Unapologetically Lazy Sunday

Morning blues, a crossed dressed Dalai lama and disappointing vegetables.

How you been?

Have you told your mother about me?

I heard you’ve been away to discover yourself or somethin'

But was it worth it when you stole his heart?

Never returned it, but he earned shit for you from the start

Are you workin' or just wastin' your time?

Did I mention that you’re still on my mind?

Still that lonely guy

Low yet high

Don't know why I still get at your phone

Like, me, I should fuckin' focus on my own life

Yeah, but the bigger picture

Slips and you become more significant in the mixture

Can’t seem to see myself

Always strive to be myself

But who am I, who am I? -Rex Orange country

I wake up on a Sunday morning feeling a mix of motivation and laziness. It seems like all I'll be that day is tired, but somehow, by magic, I manage to get up and face the day. It's a sunny day, a little chilly, but since spring is here, it's important to let a little skin soak up the sun; you know, for health reasons.

I warm up the kettle in my undies, rinse off yesterday's coffee maker, and carefully pour in the fresh coffee. Gotta make sure it bubbles, cause that's gonna improve the flavor. Before getting dressed, I light up some flower incense to set the mood and make it feel like a real Sunday morning, not just another day of the week. The perfumed fumes mix with the warm coffee aroma and oat milk to create the perfect cozy atmosphere.

Speaking of coffee, I gotta tell you, coffee with oat milk and honey is a million times better than a latte with regular milk. Maybe it's because it feels healthier - plant coffee grains on plant milk, starting the day with the plants, you know? Anyway, I put on the same outfit as yesterday. I know it seems sketchy, but it was such a good outfit and it's not even that dirty. Plus, it matches my vibe, so why change it?

I strut out of the house feeling like a superstar in my used rags and messy hair from my static bed. As I walk around my neighborhood in Lyon, I realize that this town doesn't feel like Paris. Sundays here are just slow, not in a cool, artsy, holistic way, but in a lazy way. People seem shy and sleepy, and the pace is sluggish. Even the market feels lonely and cold.

I take a whole lap around the "farmers" market in the square, and I recognize all these faces from other markets in town. They all act like vicious salespeople instead of humble farmers. It's true that the price of potatoes is cheaper, but what am I gonna do with 20kg of potatoes or 5 cauliflowers? I barely even eat a baguette and tomato for lunch, let alone make a meal with all that stuff. Plus, I tried those veggies last week and they didn't even taste good. I'm probably getting scammed somehow, which is a bummer 'cause it means I'll have to go back to the supermarket.

None of the fruits look appealing either, wrapped up in all that plastic. They look fake and flavorless, like unwilling imposters of Mother Nature. I feel bad for them. To avoid leaving the market empty-handed, I make a quick stop at the bakery for a baguette, and since I'm feeling fancy, I also get a croissant - the ultimate breakfast combo with coffee.

On my short walk back home, I encounter the classic strange Sunday early birds. There's just something about the lack of people and activity that makes them seem extra strange. And then, I see him. The Dalai Lama. He's fully tattooed and dressed like a Mongolian monk wearing Birkenstocks. And here I thought I was the one who wore strange outfits, but this is on another level. If I saw him in Paris, it would be totally normal, but here it just seems a little strange. But hey, who am I to judge? The guy can wear whatever he wants.

Back at my apartment, the smell of smoky flowers and tea greets me. I sit down in my small, messy kitchen and enjoy the weightless feeling that Sundays bring. It's like every sip of tea has no schedule or timing just there hanging out awkwardly, unfittingly, like the faced tattoed Dalai Lama going grocery shopping in Birkenstocks and socks.

I decide to spend the morning reading books and sipping tea. I don't feel like dealing with the mayhem of the messy world. The dystopian society in Mikhail Bulgakov's books seems to have at least a sense of tone compared to the one I live in. Maybe Sundays are for teleporting to configured tangible imaginary worlds.