Not quite Monday

Still Sunday, but I made a promise to myself to write a new post every Monday, until I don't, that is. It's fine either way. The thing is I haven't really thought much about what to write about. So I'll just tell you about my day. As I read every night before going to sleep, my body has learnt that if I'm reading it must be time to sleep, no matter what time of day it is or where I am. So I read on the tube, and I fall asleep on the tube, and then I wake up suddenly, wondering if I have snored, screamed or spoken or cried. Today, reading Wallander, I fell asleep from King's Cross to Holborn and woke up banging my elbow really hard. I cannot recall as to whether I banged my elbow during my sleep, or soon after. All I know is that it hurts. A lot. I went to a misophonia meeting to see if I can get rid of some of the hurdles that I seem to avidly collect, you know, all those knots, useless paths of thoughts, mental habits that stop you from functioning well, but at the same time are a wonderful stimulus for your intelligence. The misophonics mentioned hypnosis and meditation. And I thought, yes, I should really learn how to meditate properly. The way I meditate now is like playing tennis against six or seven people, they throw balls at me and I try to catch them, labelling them, 'thought', 'thought' 'thought'. I catch them and throw them out of the court. It is good because I don't follow any thought, as I throw it away, but I rush around the tennis court in a state of frenzy that leaves me quite debilitated. Anyway, I was thinking of all of these things on the train back home, while sleep-reading Wallander and trying to remember the murder scene and whom he was talking to. At home I found some good hypnosis by Mark Tyrrel, and followed him inside his colourful bubbles and through walls into safe places, that were quiet, beautiful and relaxing. And then I came back to the room, my room. At least I think I did, my elbow is still hurting, but everything else is softer and gentler.