The bell rings, not just in schools, but in bones. Children burst into Friday like balloons set free, dragging backpacks too light to worry, already dreaming of cartoons and cold cereal on the couch in yesterday’s clothes. Parents smile softer, meals linger longer, laundry piles forgiven until Sunday. Lovers find time again under sunsets or soft sheets, or in the simple stillness of not rushing goodbye. And the worker, ah, the worker drops the badge, the boots, the weight. The grind silenced, if only briefly, by sleep that doesn't need an alarm. This is the weekend’s glory: A door flung open to hours that are yours, to minutes not traded for deadlines or check-ins. It sings in whispers: “Rest. Remember. Rejoice.” The weekend is a world within a world a pocket of light stitched between the hems of routine. Its reveries are quiet miracles: the hum of the fan in a still room, the coffee that doesn’t cool because you are not rushing, the hug that lasts two seconds longer, because no one is late. It is the dance of dogs in open fields, the smell of stew from a neighbor’s window, the sacred call of nothing urgent. But, beyond the joy, beyond the laughter and long naps, the weekend must be more than an escape. It must be a mirror. A breath caught from life’s unending sprint, a moment to gather yourself from the corners you’ve been scattered. To check your wounds, to realign your thoughts, to dust off the dreams you shelved while surviving the week. For man is motion he runs, and runs still, even in sleep. But the wise know this: no run lasts without the breath. And no soul endures without return. So let the weekend not just be but become a holy stillness. A sacred pause. Where spirit, body, mind, and soul gather again as one. Then rise. Ready for the next mile. Because the race resumes. But this time, you run whole.