It’s one of those days, nights in fact, winter starting to show its fangs ever so ominously, thoughts creeping out uncomfortably heated, within the quilt trying its best to be comforting, thoughts that were too inconspicuous to suppress, that didn’t have a shape to identify, nor a direction to follow, eyes closed in a determined invitation, extended beyond scope, to sleep, yet unacknowledged. 

The source of the predicament was clear all along, that of the inability to feel, the attempts at feeling appearing forced, essentially generic, eventually futile. Nothing works, will, wish, hope, effort, nothing. 

Throw everything at it, still can’t feel a thing. Why is it so important to feel? And why does it feel wrong not to feel? Is it such as curse after all?

In possibly one of the mildly important phases of life, what merely surfaces is the randomly deceitful purposefully vague, sense of anti-feeling, that cold and dull atmospheric behavior which is reminiscent, and a sick metaphor, of the permanence of the weather, and the meaninglessness of the existence. 

Yet, when the definitions are sought, questions are asked, meaning is imparted, lives are rounded, patterns emerge, which brings the restriction to the paradigm with it. But what creates the paradigm can always challenge it, and yet what challenges the paradigm often succumbs to it due to the lack of enthusiasm or the incompetence to pursue it. 

Whichever it is, the lesser of the mortals have no cause to complain against it or celebrate it.

So, what happens at the end of, the day, or night, or it? And how does it feel? If ever it does? And if it does, will it be too late? Will it be needed? Will it be useful? Is it what is wanted or needed? Does it satisfy? Who knows?