I'm having trouble sleeping. I wish there was someone to talk to but there is no one. I used to have acquaintances. I mean I used to have acquaintances online as opposed to in person. I could get online pretty much anytime and find someone who would talk to me. Now I don't.

I was recent posts that people have just posted. I thought about leaving a comment on a few but I stopped myself. The reason I didn't leave a comment is because I didn't want to impose on anyone. I know that sounds stupid, but most people are not interested in what I think. At least not interested enough to have a conversation.

I had a conversation with someone once and I confessed that most people find me boring. The response I got was that it's not that I'm boring it's just that my interests lie outside the normal scope of what most people are interested in. It got me thinking that there is someone somewhere who is interested in the same things I am. To that person I would not seem boring. To that person I would be someone interested in talking to. I guess the trick is running into that person. So it's okay if anyone reading this finds this post or any other post I've made boring. It just means you're not the person I'm looking for. Here on Prose, we do have a common interest in writing so maybe the person I'm looking for is here somewhere or maybe not. If they are, they may never find me.

But then I think if I ever did run into anyone who was responsive, I wouldn't know how to handle it. It would be something way outside of my normal experience. It would really take some getting used to.

I didn't take any kind of stimulant to keep me awake. I would really rather be sleeping. Since there isn't anyone to talk to, I will just have to settle for writing out my thoughts and posting them.

I'm awfully drained from over doing myself.

I'm terrified of being neglected and misunderstood.

I'm feeling sorrow from pretending to be happy from unleashed acceptances.

I'm jealous of the way I was brought into a persons life as a second option.

I'm a weeping willow screaming for a soul resurrection.

I'm finally walking out the door with my soul tied and heart caged.

I'm so sick of pleasing others turning my insanity into reality.

I'm exhausted, thumping my head against the wall from all the trauma.

I'm running away from the blizzard falling into another nutshell.

I'm slowly looking towards an actual fairy tail reality through a dark tunnel.

I'm much so your second option but I'll be top tier for myself for once.

I'm taking off all of my clothes and dipping myself in a fountain of youth.

I'm more than everything they said I would be.

I'm extremally disciplined due to hectic unacceptable volunteering.

I'm sipping on deprived Macallan, the water of life.

I'm giving myself a reason to get to the moon slowly but surely.

I'm the reincarnation for my ambitious ways.

I'm not looking at the clock for misconceptions anymore, time will tell.

I'm ok with closing a chapter without an ending when it feels right.

I'm much so your second option but I'll be top tier for myself for once.

I had of course meant to write something myself into the challenge, but I couldn't Will it into words on screen, though naturally I thought about it. I suppose I carried my own title through to "leading" conclusion.

A momentary block.

I greatly enjoyed all twenty-five entries linked here to the challenge itself:

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14212

Thank you very much for your thoughtful work to @AnaviChopra @graceinpoetry @GentlmanBastard @Beccawaits @pretty_archaic @DianaHForst @lakelaur @Verbose @cassJW @WhiteWolfe32 @hunter_graham @thisisit @speedtype @Nor @Celeben @Plexiglassfruit @aflalo22 @TheOliveTree @kadelebg @deb1900 @ARC9 @DrSemicolon @7v7 @cjmoznette35 @Jenissa

The entry that intrigued, most, is the almost unfinished as-if write by ARC9. It opens more questions and while it seems linear in suggestion of Time, we know (in thinking) our being is neither chronological nor logical. The battle continues overtime, true, usually as if with less urgency, until the Spirit dies, but not necessarily in death itself-- was my interpretation. We reach back and forth, in past and wishful thinking, and hesitate in the moment.

The Mind over Matter battle, countered with one more element-- of Fighting Spirit.

I will continue to ponder this, and eventually write that write I was stopping.

Thank you again everyone for the wonderful reads!

I'm tired of thinking outside the box. I like getting boxed in.

I'm tired of giving it my all. I like to keep some of it.

I'm tired of all I said being done. After, it's not, is it really?

I'm tired of the crow and the way it flies. I don't want to go that way.

I'm tired of being sick and tired. I just want to be sick.

I'm tired of the one or the other. I'm just another.

I'm tired of cautious optimism. I want to be recklessly pessimistic.

I'm tired of an abundance of caution. I don't have much left.

I'm tired of being a free spirit. I've captured my spirit.

I'm tired of going all the way. I want to stop some of the way.

I'm tired of the fairer sex. Neither is fair.

I'm tired of free and easy, because easy is never free.

I'm tired of the end of the day. At that time, I just want to get past midnight.

I'm tired of the bottom line, because the bottom line isn't.

I'm tired of sticking it out. I'm much too careful with what I stick out.

I'm tired of loving and leaving. I want to stick around.

I'm tired of sticking 'round, because it always involves π in some way.

I'm tired of pie, because it isn't easy as.

I'm tired of cake, because it's not a piece of.

(I'm tired of halving my cake and eating it, two.)

I'm tired of spunk, because I don't got it and don't need it.

I'm tired of can't missing it, because I always am.

I'm tired of me and you. Just you will do.

Alone amidst an abounding abyss

and azure aspirations age again.

Agitating already angry airs

and aching, awaiting anxiously.

Anticipating any affection's afterglow.

Always absent.

Ancient roots take hold,

Tiny seed to growing oak,

Life's journey unfolds.

Youth's branches stretch wide,

Reaching for dreams in the sky,

Unfurling with pride.

Maturity's bark,

Weathered by time's gentle touch,

Stories etched within.

Autumn leaves descend,

Whispering tales of seasons,

Nature's final call.

Silent in slumber,

Beneath the moon's watchful eye,

The cycle renews.

Open, all is cracked,

Wispy eyes and a hushed face

quiet tears are split.

My first step towards

I call a place, nothingness,

what they call a life?

I breathe in unknown,

surrounded by the warmth, friend

cracked heart or fire ball.

My hands are worn, burnt

thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, doom

count the seconds past.

Restless heart, could stop

old, wrinkled, may skin be dry.

Pierced soul, wounded deep.

Samih rubbed her hands together, and then shifted her wrists a bit to check the time on her strawberry watch (a gift that her godmother had given her for her twentieth birthday). Soon the sound of clicking-clacking was heard coming from the east. The train came to a screeching halt, and some folks disembarked from it. A few of them looked so drained, as if some dybbuk had sucked all the life force out of them.

"All aboard to Chive!" The conductor bellowed. Samih rushed toward the back of the line leading to the train to Chive. The smell of chamomile tea filled the space, and air Samih had been told to sit.

Most folks in the train were either: getting ready to catch several hours in dreamland, or grabbing one of their portable frosty detachable tablets to continue watching one of their favorite shows. The train took a few hours to get to its final destination, and Samih decided to also take a catnap.

Samih tried to fall asleep, but as much as she tried she was not able to drift off into the land of what some believed to be a gateway to foretelling the future, or tapping into visions passed on from Morpheus. So, it was time to do some more people watching: from seeing whether the people on board packed light (like Samih), or decided to move with luggage that made them look like they were carrying a dead body, or bodies aboard the train.

The conductor, who looked like he was in his late thirties, or early forties, stepped right up to Samih. "Ticket, please, Miss..." Samih gave a slight nod, and handed the ticket to the conductor. He scanned the bar code, and gave a slight nod, too.

Someone quickly ran past the conductor. The conductor shouted, "Oy!" This made most of the folks in the train, even the ones who had been asleep, jump up in their seats. The runner continued to take off, leaving the rest of the folks looking on with puzzled expressions. Wondering, and looking around to see where the running man was headed to.

There was no place to run, or hide. He could not get off the train; it was still moving. They had just left one of the stops along the way to Chive, Rolon.

Samih rose to her feet, and as soon as she was about to take off to check out what was going on, a hand landed on her left shoulder. This startled her. "I suggest you take a seat, young lady."

She wanted to continue walking, and check out what was going down between the conductor, and the runner. Maybe he was a secret agent who had caught sight of the wanted person on their agency's hit list.

The stranger snapped his fingers, and the train was covered in what seemed to be dark stormy clouds. Samih gulped, and stared at the stranger. "What in the Chive is going on?"

She watched the stranger form a slight o, and wind rushed out of his mouth. Her very own mouth gaped at the sight of this metamagick form. "Now," the voice rose like a rushing wave, "please, I would prefer it if you took a seat."

Samih rubbed her eyes, and pinched herself. "What're you doing?" The stranger asked. "I am trying to check...making sure that I am not stuck in Morpheus' realm."

The stranger sighed. "Being stuck in Morpheus' realm should be the least of your worries."

"Why?" Samih asked. "Who is on this train that has much greater power than The King of Dreams?"

The stranger took out a notebook, and sketched out a drawing.

"Samih..."

"How do you know my name?"

He chuckled, and said, "Even the great Sherlock Holmes would have easily figured that out." He replied, and pointed to her ticket which she still had in her hand that had her name written on it in bold and capital letters: SAMIH.

Samih placed the ticket inside her gold leather jacket. Then she realized who the stranger was. "I did not realize the great Inspector Mpaso would be gracing us all here with their presence." The Inspector smiled, "Samih...it seems you will not take a seat. Alright then. Would you like to find out what has happened to the young man that I have been tracking?"

The dark stormy clouds that had surrounded the train gradually drifted away. "It would be such a great honor." Samih said with a slight bow.

Mpaso moved to the side, and the two were off to see where the conductor, and running man were currently along the space, or cabins of the train. Samih tried to contain her excitement. Here she thought the train ride was going to be a humdrum, and long mode of transportation.

The Inspector had managed to place a tracking spell on the runner. He followed the silver trail of dust which only his eyes could see. "Follow me."

Samih shrugged her shoulders, and thought to herself. "Okay. Let's go!"

They hurried along, moving from one cabin to another- with the Inspector in the lead. He ducked behind one of the seats once he and Samih had walked into another cabin. "Get down!" the Inspector cried out.

The Inspector mumbled something under his breath. Samih ducked behind the seat that was right beside the Inspector's. The train began to jerk backwards, and forwards.

There was a bright flash like lightning that struck into the main cabin. The Inspector looked around, and jumped to his feet. Samih followed him, "What were you expecting Inspector?"

"Not this." The body of the runner was missing. What remained was a charred body of the conductor with his hair still burning. Samih felt as if all the contents of her belly were about to make their way back into her trachea. The Inspector snapped his fingers, and softly mumbled "Obliviscar, Samih."

18.07.23

#MPOSA (c)

I dreamt last night it was the year 2100.

The paradigm in medicine was that the human body is essentially a software program - the molecules comprising it are code. Every software program has bugs - elements of the code that result in the user experience not working as intended. "Disease," in this new paradigm, was simple a bug in the code. Every bug is fixable. For every problem there is an equal and opposite solution.

In this hyper-advanced, surprisingly utopian future, in which I found myself an "old" man, disease was a thing of the past - including the disease that we used to call "aging."