Sunday mornings are the closest thing to sacred time that a non-religious person gets. Not because they’re holy but because they’re useless. Gloriously, defiantly useless. The week hasn’t started yet. Saturday’s momentum has worn off. You exist in a gap.
I make coffee too slowly on purpose. I read whatever’s open on my phone from the night before — usually something I don’t remember choosing. The light in my apartment between 7 and 9 a.m. hits the wall in a way that makes me think I should learn to paint. I won’t learn to paint.
The whole thing lasts maybe two hours before the guilt machinery starts up again. You should be studying. You should be coding. You should be doing something that future-you would thank you for. And future-me probably would. But present-me is drinking coffee and watching light move across a wall and choosing, for once, not to optimize.
That’s the theory: Sunday mornings exist to remind you that you are not a productivity function. You are a person. Occasionally, a person sitting in light.