It’s not a matter of being the highest intellect of couples, who are constantly having quality a conversations, the caliber of conversations that society members could easily tap into and be like, damn, these folks are smart.

It’s more about being captured, lost, at some higher level conversation going on with eyes and sound. confidences, and power, and heights, oh but it’s playfulness alright, coming each as they tango with their partner in the most compelling ocean of word and power play,. taunting and flirting as we did since we were 7th graders, the ongoing tease and taunt tango. And this 7th grade tango is woven intrinsically somewhere in all interaction. The full presence battle going on between 2 people. they’re the only two people that either of them know exists at the moment. they are both completely enamored in this dance of conversation and power. between the 2 lovers, there is knowledge of so much, each movement is stacked on to the complexity of everything they know when they are together, the godliness they feel when they are together.

& this confidence in them, they themselves are astounded at the person they become when they are together, it’s more than they ever really thought they would be. And for spurts of time, one of the couple will be taken to such a glorious and intellectual mental place, they will be on a roll, and they feel themselves rambling and tangling into a beautiful spree of just. pure. coolness. so cool that they feel they are outdoing their partner for certain moments. but they’re just so damn happy that their partner gets to witness them being at this mental high. there’s no power or envy reall. and it’s that mental high, the bud of a relationship, the only relationship I can respect because it’s the only one that took me to that place. and I do wonder, if eventually that feeling of “coolness” and superiority ever fades. and I don’t think I want it to. because it just might be the very cause that brings both people up. it sounds shallow but it’s actually the deepest human piece ever, it’s evolution and survival. we are enjoying, feeling the absolute coolest ramble, absolute smartest self because are coming to the truths of human experience, we’re getting up there, or in there, stripped down to our very core with conversation with said person. we’re floating. and growing.

who knows. I just know that the whole experience, the things that are said, they are just such quality things to be said on earth. and sure, only our two ears will ever hear these things, but the statements learned will be ingrained in us. not ingrained, they will spread and bleed into everything we each are a part of. they will be heard for years to come.

Are the complainers the ones who get what they want in the world? to break down and cry creates something of an epiphany, a joy, a cracking open of something very precious once it’s over.

however, the complainers start to emphasize their cries a little bit. they start to rely on their whining for the good things to happen to them. and the gods and the universe know this. somewhere in the complainers’ bones, they too know this. does it prevent them from behaving in sharp and genuine moves? Or does their outlook, their soul and their sense of being become distorted through the whines?

We are all staying strong among the piles and piles of history. When do we choose to break down? What is the final straw, and are we the ones inducing it? can we always be stronger than we actually are.

A moment of crying led to great thing. but we can’t recreate the cry in order to get what we want.

Sulay tightened his scarf, attempting one last time to give himself some dignity, as he headed into the cold, whirling trenches of his day. Nothing could compel him to believe his life was worth anything.

Incorrect. He found himself quite worthy of everything. The steps and motions of his life were not worthy of him.

The air of nothingness rung hard around him and that scarf.

Somewhere in his mind, though, he vaguely remembered what it was like for something to feel powerful.

But hehhhh, any attempts to dance back into that life would only add a transparent and lifeless brick on the nothingness he felt for the world around him.

The best thing about life is getting tired of it, really. Because then something new happens.

And it’s unknown which direction that new thing will go. Human spirit shit.

If a human is smart enough to get tired of the repeated, something new always seems to happen. A new feeling is the equivalent happiness. And blah a blah.

Sulay knows this. And he’s bored of this reassurance.

Sulay’s machine asked him if he wanted to bond with other misfits who were going through some similar bullshit as him.

No.

Sulay’s machine asked if he wanted to listen to some music that other misfits enjoyed during a similar fit.

No.

Sulay’s machine asked him if he would “ACCEPT” the machine’s attempt to force him to give a fuck about other people.

Sulay smashed the holographic red button.

Sulay was drowning himself in a hatred for the repetition.

And maybe the only reason there’s anything, the only reason there is any sort of tumble of energy in his belly as he tries to sleep at night, is because of a teetering maybe. The only reason he wants anything in this world is because of that word maybe.

The only reason he cares is the possibility that the thing might be taken away.

Or is it in the indecision? Knowledge about an opportunity. The fact that he must choose between two things tears him around, and it is the only semblance of life he ever experiences, his only waking moment.

The indecision about whether he should turn the fucking alarm off is what keeps him up at night. Should he optimize for more sleep, or should he keep the possibility of waking up early to attend the God damned thing in the morning?

The God damned thing he had no interest in wanting until it’s taken away from him in a universe where he turns his alarm off.

Life only begins to exist when he sees something as “being there” or “not being there.”

He has a role. And that fucking kills him.

And the motherfucking dissatisfaction that comes as he tries to verbalize, to take the floating pieces of his brain and bring them out, smooth them over, pausing all other transactions in the brain to bring out one measly piece that he thinks might survive the oxygen of real earth.

He suddenly sees, with some satisfaction, that maybe that’s the only real satisfaction: the dissatisfaction of not being able to explain it all. To be stuck in the in between is the only reason there is energy.

Precursor: I’m going to speak on behalf of all humans, which is quite a dick move. And what’s worse, I stand by this whole “speaking-on-behalf-of-all humans” trip. I truly believe, what I’m about to describe, must happen to all of us. I’m disgusting, I know. And that last statement I just uttered? It’s only there as some societal padding space, to make it acceptable, to apologize for the fact that I love myself this God damned much:

Here goes... (or went):

We all want to be recognized for something deep and specific that we do.

We sit and we live our lives, and we notice something about our own mind, and we smile in awe at ourselves, or we’re smiling at how ridiculous the feeling is that’s occurring inside of us. It’s complex and it’s wicked and wild and different, and it’s the most enjoyable thing, because it’s completely new.

Whether we admit it or not, we think our mind is the greatest force in that moment. We’re stumbling upon something fresh and different, and it’s a fucking high. And God fucking damnitt, we say to ourselves, no one else gets to do this. Look at me and how unique and brilliant I am, we say somewhere in our subconscious, even if we’re too societally humbled and convoluted to ever know we’re thinking this.

And here I am a moment later, now realizing that some people don’t want to be recognized for those moments; they don’t want the world to know what their mind just did back there, even if they enjoyed the hell out of it.

And how treacherous to live a life like that! What must it be like, to see these deep things you know about yourself, and not want them to be seen by anyone. What does that do to a soul?

Then again, I’m pretty sure people have a lot of fun in their private moments.

I mean shit, i’m kind of jealous of people who have high doses of that trait right now.

But realistically, I’m just being overly flattering, pretending that I want what the rest of you have, as a way to downplay my own self-love.

But back to that unique and splendid and brilliant moment the mind just had, whatever you’re comfortable calling it. Here’s what I wonder: is it a completely solo moment? Did the brilliance only occur because we were alone?

Does the idea of “other” only come into play a millisecond after the brilliant solo moment? Or, do we only get to see the brilliant moment, once we remember that others exist?

I’m not going to take a stance on this quite yet, for I don’t have one.

At one time, I was very convinced that our energy and motions only occur because of the existence of other, even tweeting (on an account with 2 followers):

“there is no such thing as living without an audience. we are here for one another. we make one another who we are by our reaction to each other. and none of that is completely true, but a thought for you to send back to me and we can have other thoughts”

Often times I’m acting in the ways that would make me more appealing to the rest of you. I try to combat my “#1” flaw: self-absorption. Which is an insanely ironic thing: to stop being self-absorbed so that others can see me as flawless.

Regardless, I’m physically trying to act less self-absorbed. And it’s fucking working. I’m acting for you. And in this act of acting for you, I get to be someone closer to someone I’d admire. I enjoy existing more, because of these constraints, the concision. Am I creating a personality the world would enjoy? I want to say I’m finding the personality that was already here. But maybe the person I am develops in the act of acting for all of you.

I don’t care who it is, but I want someone to be motherfucking affected.

I wish I could say, that the eyes and the opinion of everyone in this world is equal for me, but I know that isn’t the case. But even my favorite minds and opinions, I don’t need or want them to see this if it won’t affect them. I only want the affectable to see it.

And I actually look back at that statement and see lies.

Is everything I become, for my favorite audience?

Those coolest cats in Detroit who have the greatest things to say. I want my existence to appeal to them. I know it does.

I know my existence would appeal to anyone, when described in minute detail. It’s ridiculous and disgusting to say that. But I believe it’s true for all humans. If a human can truly describe who they are and what they’re feeling, the complexity of it will inevitably be interesting to everyone else.

(I guess you should know this about me, but immediately when I say anything, I see a contradicting statement, so I do apologize, dear audience.)

Here’s where we’re at: I had just claimed that we’re only interesting when we describe ourselves in the closest of details. But now I’m wondering if we actually become interesting through the mix up of information, the lack of description.

The choice in details. It’s no choice, really, but rather a selection that our mind does without our permission. Our mind can only handle certain information about our true self. We never get a straight picture of who we are. We’re only able to tell ourselves the details that we can tolerate. That’s the only information our mind let’s us see.

But, oh I do believe we see more than we will ever know. We spend our energy trying to hide the person we can’t tolerate. And the habits formed during the process of hiding become who we really are.

I’ve patted myself on the back saying I can describe all the things about myself that I hate. But I barely scraped. I said one umbrella statement about being self-absorbed, and determined that was enough. What was happening to me as I tried to tap in and see what I really hated?

Well, I noted that my main complaint was self-absorption, which would mean I should probably stop writing about myself, which should probably mean I should stop writing in general. But then how would I ever be able to learn more about what I hate about myself?

Or I looked at myself, did an animated sideways nod and remembered how much I loved myself, and I was like, yeah, it’s chill, be self absorbed.

Neither of those things happened, and both happened at the same time. I decided to stop rambling because, even I was bored of myself.

Or maybe all the writing stopped appealing to me because it felt like self-absorption-- the thing I was supposed to be avoiding.

And, in the self-absorption (which I was somehow always let slide), I claimed I could be something more if I set my mind to it. I could stop writing about me, I could write about important topics in life that would benefit the world.

But then there is the self-absorption again: me thinking I have some insight that the world needs.

And I don’t want to believe this, I shouldn’t believe the statement if I ever want to claim I’m not self-absorbed. But I truly believe we all have the insight that the others need.

So I’m sitting and living in kind of a paradox.

“Yeah babe, I don’t care that you’re talking to other people right now,” she pretended to file and fiddle with her nails.

“Why does this statement even have to exist?” he paused for a comfortable beat, “then.”

“Why did it occur to me? You’re asking? Why did it occur to me to say this?”

“Quit buying time.”

“Quit making me love you. With your sharp edges and digging ways..”

“Quit being this energized little fuck about all the wrong things.”

“Quit making it out to seem like you abuse me.”

“Who’s watching b? Who is ever really watching?”

“I want it to just be you and me,” she said. “But we’re too lonely for that.”

“Hence why you’re so hunky dory peachy king, cool, with the fact that I’m talking to others…”

Pause.

“Finding myself,” with derision he mocked her.

“I can’t tell you why you’re scared. It’s actually boring as fuck for me to explore it.”

“Calling it boring is an umbrella statement, love.” He paused and composed. “Maybe we should work harder.”

“Thank goodness you’re with me.”

“It’s all we can ever be.”

“Thank goodness we can pretend to be satisfied with that statement for the time being.”

We like to say everything we do is with the awareness that others are feeling too.

But we’re rearranging everything

For our own best feelings to come out

We’re scared shitless of feelings that aren’t the best

What do I really care what you’re feeling?

Other than in hopes that your feelings

Are something positive about me

Are engulfed in all of me that I have

Most words uttered are lies, intentional or not

The rooted, meaty, packed and filled statements that we tangle out of our brains with tongues

Our only means to express the layered shit inside of us.

We say and believe our statements for a time being.

Intentional or not

Lakes of lies crafted to keep us moving

Keep us sleeping

And etching

Hiding us from the shit

That might stop us

All the statements have tiny lies within them.

For they are tainted with our opinions

which are tainted with our motivations

My boss wants me to get dinner with her and her family

My opinion is that we need to get work done

My truer, tiniest motivations and thoughts are that I’m awkward around her family

My heart is hiding and demanding to be seen at the same time

Crying that no one sees it

But eye contact is a two way street

My heart refuses to look at other hearts

My heart fears it won’t see what it wants

My heart trying to run around

Acting fierce and pretty

Frolicking in places that want it

A freedom

For a heart to go fractal

As the only means to really feel into itself

In actuality

The energy really comes

From knowing

Hoping

That at some point in time

The two hearts

Can just be comfortable

Together

Her stupid little passionate soul was registered as 100% interested in all the human interactions laid on the table for her.

It’s dangerous and pathetic for her counterparts to see, that she’s 100% in.

But Marva was often in this 100% range. Excitement poured out of her, with the prospect of men and love. She felt love towards anyone who made her feel even an ounce of that boilly, burning love-stricken dopamine.

Realistically, she had doubts and a million negative things to say about the inducers of her dopamine. She could write novels and poems about the depths of their shortcomings and flaws. The dissatisfaction and angst, the whole damn thing was not nearly enough to make her whole and satisfied.

Pending. The men she was after that night were both very much pending, with neither of these gentlemen really allowing themselves to care all that much about whether they were graced with the presence of Marva. Eventually no one would care either way. Their machines had made the whole act of hanging out with Marva sound as though it could happen no matter what, it was hardly a win. Hardly a “reward.”

In fact, a hang out with Marva was registered as “positive points” for them mentally, in their psychological settings. So good for their minds, that it was almost listed as a “task,” something they should do in order to better themselves.

It appealed to them, but the thought of hanging out with Marva certainly didn’t creep back into their minds like addictions and “rewards” usually do. Their minds knew the machine would present to them, Marva, if the time was right..

But for Marva in that moment, she was damn floofy and conceivably in need of a “good time,” easily swayed into the laps of lust, in need of a “reward,” and the ranked highest dopamine reward for Marva was, well, a man. Any man who struck her fancy in that particular department of neurons.

One of the men was by the name of Shioz. He had broken up with her 6 days ago. She had worked hard as hell not to think about Shioz the last 6 days.

And now here he was, back in her life, announcing all sorts of statements that made her look at the world differently. Statements that had her re-evaluating human dynamics with fresh and skeptical, epiphanic eyes. And she fucking loved that. She was addicted to that. She was addicted to any male or act on the planet that did this to her.

The detailed, detailed description of Marva and Shioz’s relationship is this: that she might be, mentally, the closest thing to understanding him, and entertaining him. “Powerful” stuff they had. But who was it really powerful for? It was powerful to her, merely because Shioz was someone who loved her. Someone who felt fire and poured out all kinds of passions into her.

She questioned where this all came from, since his machine indicated he only understood about 13% of who she was. But Marva didn’t care, she would throw 100% into a lover like Shiov, regardless of her questions. She couldn’t stop herself.

The other pending gentleman is a Mr. Adit Randolph. A country club prep boy who doesn’t mind being as ruthless and petty as they come. He’s a real drama queen, and viciously unscathed by anything that is said or done. Statistically, Adit’s presence and purpose on this earth didn’t appeal much to Marva. But there was a strange combustion of molecules in the air when they had been physically near one another. And anyways, she had big plans to use the motherfucker for some coping sex. Or some attention and distraction, the basics.

Marva and her machine knew which gentleman the girl would prefer to hang out with that evening. But the chances of her Shioz actually coming through were much lower, something like a 42% compared with Adit’s 97%.

But Marva wanted what she wanted, hence the tweaking, teetering of her ionic soul that constantly kept energy bustling around.

She couldn’t send both of them 100%s, because that’s mechanically not how things work.

But if she did commit to Adit, she would look cool as fuck to her Shioz.

Of course, she would risk not being able to see Shioz.

Marva’s dilemma was such a typical case, she thought.

Plus, her real heart would be measured by her machine anyways.

If she were to hang out with Adit, her machine would know she was doing it just to impress Shioz.

But eventually it wouldn’t be just to impress Shioz. She’d hang out with him, and she’d find herself enjoying it. She’d start to feel into his presence in front of her, happy with the decision. She loves enjoying the shit out of whatever is in front of her. She has the ability to love the shit out of anything, really. Maybe it’s for the sake of having the world see that she is enjoying herself.

But it’s actually more than that, her machine calculates. Her ability to love the shit out of anything comes from a special kind of a relief—the relief comes to Marva because she doesn’t have to decide.

So she would sit here for the appropriate time frame, when Shioz said he would call and make the decisions as to whether he could hang out – his 42% likelihood of hanging out, barely leaning up or down much as the hours pass.

She had guestimated around the time that she would hear from him. Her machine refused to confirm her guesses.

Marva started to realized that she didn’t really care or want either of these motherfuckers. She wanted Adit to come, just because. it was considered fun. It would liven her up to entertain his ass, and maybe his hands would end up on her. She always wanted that.

She came close to contacting Adit, with the intention that if Shioz did come through, she could easily just become a total crazy ass and trick both of them into hanging out. All three at once. She marveled at this idea.

But, oh. there was also the risk of losing Adit as a fuck buddy for the months to come. She needed that shit, and if she did the whole “blowing off” thing, he might be out of the running. He might not be her fuck buddy.

The facts and realistic outlook on it all, is very real. you can say you’re running into love and choosing the choice that seems “less plausible,” “more exciting,” and “more scary.” but what you’re really doing is not spending the time to think about the depths of what’s really inside of you.

It’s never yes or no. It’s never just the one. It only appears that way because there is physically just one of us, and physically just one minute located in front of the next.

She knows she will never be satisfied. And she’s done the satisfactory thing of locking up that exact piece of information, playing dumb and running around seeking satisfaction. Maybe somewhere her satisfied self did this, so that it would guarantee the woman is never satisfied.

She could invite both over, or neither. She could just go to bed—something her body wanted, but something her mind would never really allow when such pending excitements floated among her.

Why couldn’t she live on her own time frame and involve no one else?

Why was this deadline and time frame the only place her heart rate rose.

Why and how could she invite both of them in mentally, in ways she never had before. Yet she couldn’t admit her stupid little anxiety about who to hang out with

Waiting makes you into something, man.

Great advice, both of her lovers would say.

And a decision would be made.

could she jam it all in? Or could she

Should she play it cool and not answer to either of them?

Mentally drained she was. But she thought she needed fun before she could sleep. She always thought that before she could sleep.

And we’re not even using “fun” in a sexual way here.

It’s more like, anti-“what-you’re-supposed-to-do.” The calculated line-up of what the machine tells you is good or bad for you.

Bbased on which factors? You might ask. And it’s a complicated question. And one that an average Normie would not be able to get into much detail on.

Risks. And seeing tracers in her room. Marva was damn tired, but damned only ready to sleep once she had fallen into every risk.

She knew she was keeping Adit on pending, and sure, it was costing her, to leave him there. Wearing down her chances of having a reliable fuck buddy.

But I guess she could look at the positive and say it was also raking in points in the category that made her seem “cool and distant” and not giving a fuck.

Wow, she’s in this new place where these fuckers really aren’t all that appealing. She’s making decisions for her work and body tomorrow. She takes actions to get to sleep, schedule an exercise and early work tasks for the morning. She’s finally getting tired, planning and living and doing her own damn cycle without knowledge of their presence whatsoever.

But, alas! If they’re sitting over there in their worlds, and they’re tired too—she huffs and puffs some anxiety at this—that must mean that they don’t care. They don’t want it enough. They don’t stay awake at night the way she does. And just want it. Something.

She cares about her motherfucking mind the most. And sleep is calling.

What power to choose sleep over the fun.

Because of course Marva would never sleep, and she would never do that.

She would never be able to sleep, knowing that such important things were happening in the air around her.

Eventually it would all wear on her.

And she could be satisfied.

And what a wonderful zone to be in, when you just spin and spiral everywhere alone--never waiting up and pending.

And in the process, the one who loves you most, notices.

And you’re never satisfied. Because the first statement cannot exist if the second does.

And maybe life isn’t worth living if the second statement doesn’t exist…

You get sharper at everything if you listen.

And sometimes listening involves not listening.

Skipping over the lines of explanation or complaint.

Skipping over the description that’s easy for you, the warm up.

How refreshing when you realize that none of this is for anyone anymore.

But even that thought

only exists

for the possibility that others would hear