There would seem to be moments that happen to me, sporadic episodes in which I will feel complete, utter loss as a physical sensation somewhere in the back of my brain. The sense of this pushes me, all too often, to thrashing somewhat wildly from the privacy of my bedroom, at which point my body has already given up. In my head, I survey the possible causes, such as my failure to take medication that morning, what someone might have said to me, etc. Worst when it is apparent that it “just happens” so it is like crying for no reason. Then I blame people, sometimes I blame people I have never met. Eventually it feels too dramatic, even for me, and so the better part of the day can settle in, not so much by my own doing as in large part by default.
Because I don’t want to look for the reason, I permit myself to dwell. Such as on the page, some vague memory to peruse its consequences, a film just coming out with positive reviews. One day, I found myself thinking about my father, not in past tense or as a figure, but I asked what he was doing now. That time I was unaware that he had flown to Beijing the day before on a business trip, and when you are ill-informed, it is unavoidable to feel considerably left behind. He must be sleeping, I should think. 4 a.m. He was also one of those novel people who went out right when he’d lay down.