Letters Between Sundays

Then the flip switches.
We’re finally turned on.
The electricity is running, and the bill is high.

Imagine sticking your finger into a socket and your whole body absorbs the current. Suddenly you feel alive. Sparks run through every vein, lighting you up from the inside. It’s addicting. You chase it until you can’t run anymore—arms out, ready to grab the feeling and never let it go.

You’re unstoppable.
On top of the world.
Nothing can touch you.

Until the power shuts off again.

You realize you haven’t blinked in minutes. Your heart is racing. Ideas flood your brain so fast you can’t catch them all. Creativity sits in your fingertips, and the passion is explosive. Tabs open everywhere. Projects scattered across your desktop like confetti. You withdraw money you don’t even have because you feel like life is too short to wait.

People say you only live once.
But that’s false.
You live every day—
you only die once.

It’s strange how you can despise yourself one moment, yet stand with the confidence of a supermodel the next. It’s like being tugged in every direction by invisible hands, whispering that you’re invincible, glowing, unstoppable.

But then the lights start to flicker.
The power dims.
And you have no money left to turn it back on.

That’s when it hits—the halt, the crash, the brick wall you never saw coming.

The power is on now.
But the question always hangs in the air:

When will it go dark again?