CXLVIII. Synonymous Subconcious -

After sitting in a blog queue for four weeks:

To wake up with a sinking feeling in the stomach:
It’s a new day. Today is a new day. Sometimes one falls asleep after midnight and things go awry. You wake up and feel as though you have lost something, which may not necessarily be foul. Still, you cannot open your eyes the next morning and say that it is a new day.
You’ve lost the ability to do so. Unless of course you choose a new benchmark as the start of something new. You may choose your birthday or the spring solstice as the time to set forth and live by resolutions.

Say one has entered their subconscious before 12 am. Assuming death did not overstay a possible invitation, one has now exited the deceptive inner abstraction that remains dormant throughout the day. Awake, one can live a new day.

I woke up with swirling motions in the core of my stomach, as if the force of gravity was accumulated in my gut, pulling me downward to the hardwood floors in the prewar New York City apartment that I’m currently living in. Post-weekend, I am back in the place of my birth.
As I typed that, I felt the weight, a product of the force of gravity. This pull was not the same as the one I referred to before. This downwards vector isn’t hellish.
This vector is more in line with my beliefs as well: There is no heaven and there is no hell.
Directional vectors that equate up with the supreme and down as delinquent is, well, adhered to in some religions so I won’t express judgment nullifying its substance.

“Kindly turn my feet in the direction where God is not.”
         - Guru Nanak Dev Ji

My birthplace is the island borough: Manhattan.
I smell all that is familiar: roasted and caramelized nuts, salted pretzels, adobo and tandoori spices. The breeze is gentle, lukewarm and indicative of an approaching academic year or deceivingly early fall - the kind that falls victim to hurricane season and simmers down to a low boil, causing seasonal viruses to bubble to the surface just as children populate public transportation and germs are magnified into the friendly animate globs of mucus from over-the-counter medicine commercials.

Four weeks later:

Ask me not if I would go home over the weekend. I will go home every Friday, without an inkling of a doubt. The sodium intake during the weeks makes my heart pulsate at a frightening speed. I feel the blood rushing. With every step in the dead of night that I take, it sounds as if my ear is touching a conch shell. Unidentifiable liquid has gathered not under my eyes, but in my gut, as a result of the Na+.

So I head home, slightly bloated, awaiting much-needed nutrition, an embrace or two, a trembling visit to my peace of mind and then an unshaken last one before I return to the island borough.

Fundamentally rooted and unsettled; they are only synonymous in their subconscious.