I kind of just stand there, motionless, tongue half-out of a head half-inside the cold fluorescent coffin-shaped box which predates me in this house by a comfortable margin. Behind my dead unblinking eyes a brain simultaneously tries to decide what it is I feel like and what it is I have the motivation to make. But I’m also not really thinking about anything. I’m not even looking inside the fridge. My head just sort of leans up against the side of the door as I gaze out into the middle distance of the kitchen, frozen in the moment. 

I become frozen in the moment whenever facing a decision that threatens to have very little to absolutely no impact on my life. It’s sort of like when I’m about to head out for a run (I never go for a run), and I stand there with my hand on the handle of the front door, dressed in some tight military black Under Armour gear that slices upwards into my armpits and groin and smells heavily of old dried sixteen-year-old me’s sweat, debating whether or not I actually possess an iota of the energy required to do what I’m about to do, or at least, what I’ve told myself I’m about to do. 

It feels like a cousin to daydreaming, blanketing me in the same kind of cerebral white noise nothingness, a sleepy half-real state type feeling. It begins like a daydream. I become less aware of the solid warm mass of flesh unmoving at the outskirts of my person while my brain, like some kind of velvet bean bag chair beneath the ass of a morbidly obese man, sinks further and further into itself, dragging with it my senses. My eyes still perceive, my ears still hear, but no sparks fly around inside to prompt any kind of outward proof-of-life action. I don’t even breathe. It’s like being dead and alive at the same time, or enduring a mini coma with your eyes forced open. Thoughts pass through as words instead of images and in single file instead of all at once. The only thought which ever seems to break the half-conscious statuesque state is the same singular self-realisation: I am daydreaming. It's only when these words flood in behind my eyes from that unknown place on the dark side of the mind that I, to put it the only way I know how, snap out of it. 

But this is where the experience of standing at my fridge door and trying to decide what to eat differs slightly to daydreaming. It doesn’t devolve into any singular statement of profound awakening towards my own current biological being, but instead, bifurcates into two eventual end thoughts: (I) I’m so fucking hungry I should just make fucking pasta (II) I had pasta yesterday, and for some reason, that’s where I draw the line. At which point I shut the door and tell myself I’ll try again in five minutes.