Nothing. I know of no other time nowadays when I can feel nothing.
With a monotonous physical task at hand, the mind can shut off. I am a machine with a given task and a means, and a purpose. A simple sense of usefulness settles within me from seeing the direct result unfolding before my eyes.
The world around me is inhabited, vibrant with life on a clear Saturday afternoon. The sun is not quite out, hidden behind thin rows of clouds, but the weather is dry, calm, and comfortable. After some time I sweat faintly beneath my fleece jacket.
Cars pass, bikers pass, dog-walkers pass. There are sounds and people to ward off abandonment. But I work alone and feel content with myself.
At work's finish, there is only slight regret, a negligible tug. How beautiful the carpet of scarlets and burnished golds was remains a memory. Now the matted green sprawls for all to see, an inferior replacement.
It is ironic, how it is my down time when I accomplish my most substantial physical work.
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