Sunday evenings are an edge: the boundary between the weekend and the week beginning. The edge is reflected in calendars which sometimes make Sunday the first day of the week and sometimes the last. I think if they were more precise, it would be Sunday evening that seems to be part of both and separate from both.
Edges are always, mysteriously, unfamiliar. No matter how many Sunday evenings we live, each one remains caught in the tension of being neither end nor beginning (and certainly not a middle). The tension remains whether we choose to make the evening a time of preparing for the week or a time of lingering in the weekend.
This seems especially true to me since many of my weekends are work-time. It is work I love unreservedly - as people love their favourite recreations - and it is work nonetheless. During the weekends, I teach people how to find the resources within them, and how to draw resources into the attention of the people around them. On Sunday evenings, I am often alone. It is my time to face the question of how much we can manage our states and our outcomes and our results - on our own.
As a writer, I imagine connections that are real but not physically present. I let my mind populate my thoughts with resources drawn from many times and many lives - some of them mine. I send my thoughts out into the world as words so that other people can imagine connections that are not physically present in their lives at that moment.
Imagined connections change our brains and our minds and our states.
Sometimes it is enough.