I Feel Null Today

Lately I feel like I’m missing something, and as my Taurean nature dictates, that void, real or not, puts me out of sorts. I’ve gone about my daily routine exactly the way I expect it to be, but for some reason I get the sense that I’m not getting the full story about something. It’s as though one song on my favorite album suddenly isn’t there anymore, but I can’t figure out which one it is. Now that I think about it, a more appropriate analogy might be a fascinating new book that’s missing a chapter; I don’t know what it’s about, so I spend the next few chapters whatthefucking my way through before I start to realize why everything seems so incoherent and disjointed. This condition takes my mind to bizarre new places.

I suppose this is a combination of things. First, I haven’t been sleeping well the past few days. I don’t know if it’s because of the unreasonable amount of stress I inflict on myself over work, the humidity, the heat, my unruly and obnoxious non-circadian schedule or everything combined. One can wreak physical havoc living in an uncontrollable maze of unconscious Boolean logic, where the mind seems to generate more input than it can process. At precisely the moment I become aware of my condition, my mind starts to manufacture ideas and sensations I can’t even describe, if only because the words don’t and can’t exist to articulate them.

Second, I’m out of my daily crazy pills, which I’ve either misplaced or, more likely, recently gulped down in a momentary quest for physical relief. It’s stressful to steal from one’s future self, knowing the torment that awaits at some near point down the road. This too plays tricks–can I be selfish with myself? Is that even possible? It’s enough to make a guy drink. And by that I mean to compel, chemically and physically, a guy like me literally to have to have a drink. The stress of knowing I’m all out of the one and only thing that yields any physical relief–except alcohol, natch–compounds the discomfort by what seems to be at least an order of magnitude. It doesn’t help when a coworker mistakes my bottled soda for a beer and announces it to the entire office. Should I really be feeling guilty for being in the same sentence as a beer?

This is a psychosomatic placebo affect–a chronological paradox. Recursion of the mind is very much like an intangible nuclear reaction, like an atomic bomb simultaneously imploding on itself. Metaphorically, it’s a chicken and egg problem. Do I feel this way because I haven’t taken my prescription, or do I take my prescription because I feel this way? To the observer, it’s an oxymoronic dichotomy. But to my own cognition, it’s what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object: nothing. So, in the absence of my crazy pill and alcohol, I guess the only solution I can hope for is to sleep my way out of this, which is exactly what I’m going to do right now.