Something usually goes wrong for me on Sundays. It's the absence of feeling what it feels like. An absolute lack-of-brain idea processed by the brain; a thoughtless thought I'm thinking. My mind is wandering somewhere in a place unknown for my body. The space it left is big and deep—I decide to feel its location in my stomach, but I might as well feel it in all the things I decide not to do.
It has nothing to do with ups or downs, with highs or lows; it has to do with some unframed reference point from a different dimension: a dimension where things can't move, no matter how hard they try (a dimension where fuel evaporates with the slightest glimpse).
I know my mind will return, it usually does (though it had never gone neither so far nor for this long). If it returns, will it tell me about the places it visited? I will ask. The new things it found out? I will see. The solutions it got to my old problems? I will try. I know that when my mind returns—that's what I dislike the most—it will fill this empty space that I decide to locate in my bodily stomach through my bodily brain, only to make it feel bigger, emptier the next time it leaves (if it ever returns).
To enjoy the process is like giving permission for it to happen again. Objectives are so short-sighted when they set as a goal to feel while not feeling at all. Memory is so narrow when it comes to remember the bad emotions that lead to the good ones; it is so ample when it comes to remember bad things while feeling bad or good things while feeling good. I just can't remember a thing. I'm willing to decide what decision to make, but I can't.
Ever felt a numb leg because of a bad sleeping position? Think of the way it feels when blood starts irrigating again. I'm still waiting for the tingling to start; I must have awaken before my mind did—or after, maybe. Anyway, I feel numb.