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Companions
The world has gone to shit, Jake thought as he scrolled through Facebook looking for story ideas. He wrote for his small town paper, and knew his days were numbered. Layoffs were happening weekly, and he hadn’t built even close to enough seniority to save himself. It made him sad, because in theory it had been his dream job. But that’s the funny thing about dreams, he supposed, once you achieve them, they stop being dreams.
But journalism wasn’t what it was in its heyday. There was no office, no local coworkers, just mornings in an empty house scrolling for ideas, and afternoons writing them. Depression had been hovering like a storm cloud ever since Wendy left, and reading comments from a world of hateful pricks certainly wasn’t alleviating his condition. He was sinking, and he could feel it. He just wanted to reach through the screen and ask these people, why don’t you just fucking kill yourself, if your life is so miserable? What is your purpose?
Jake saw a video of a sad young mother dropping her son off for his first day of kindergarten. She was emotionally distressed, and the comments actually made Jake feel sick.
You should feel bad!
You’re letting the government brainwash your child!
You’re a terrible goddamn mother! You should be homeschooling!
It went on like that for dozens of comments. Jake kept scrolling and feeling worse the more he did, yet he felt it was beyond his control to stop. He brushed his hands through his hair, and placed his head on his keyboard. What is wrong with this world? He said to himself. Was it always like this?
And the answer is probably. He supposed that being a kid was just not bothering with the bullshit because it didn’t concern you. It made Jake think of a book he read about the Vietnam war. After the fall of Saigon, many people left in boats for Canada. The traveling was wrought with diseases, famine and death. For the adults, times couldn’t be worse. But in the book, they talk about the kids, who were also hungry and sick, waiting for a boat that may never show up, putting sticks in the mud of the little island where they wait, and playing soccer. They cheered, and laughed, because they were kids. And kids see the world differently.
It made him feel sick for childhood. Not because the world was necessarily better but because he didn’t care. Oh, to not care again.
His phone dinged, and it was a message from a woman on a dating app he was trying out. Her name was Miranda. They’d been talking for a couple of weeks and had gone out for ice cream on the waterfront once. It was fine, and maybe it was his desolate state of mind, but he found himself uninterested in her stories and unable to show the same zest that he had when he was 20. He could listen to a pretty girls' stories all night long back then. But on that date, he just wanted to go home. Close the blinds and put on old movies in the dark with a six pack of beer. Another nostalgia escape. Old Stallone movies on VHS. It was wonderfully corny and over the top, and the only time he found himself smiling without forcing it.
But Miranda hadn’t let lack of sparks flying keep her from following up with him. She messaged him everyday, not in an overbearing way. Just a checking in kind of way. If he didn’t answer, she let it be, and if he did then they had a brief conversation before another bout of radio silence.
Hey stranger, she’d say
Hey you!
What’s going on?
Not much, you?
Not much, just at the beach soaking up the sun. Enjoying another beautiful day.
That’s nice.
Yeah.
And that was most of the conversations. Even that felt like a chore because what he wanted to talk about was the dark cloud in his head. He wanted to talk about Wendy leaving with the kids. He wanted to talk about his folks moving away, his best friend dying. He wanted to talk about how his dream job wasn’t a dream and what he was supposed to do when it all went up in flames?
But then he thought it was unfair to Miranda. It was unfair to burden someone you barely knew with the realities of what you wanted to talk about. But if you didn’t, then the conversations were superficial and dull.
Jake checked his phone and Miranda’s message said.
I got a story idea for you, if you’re interested.
Yeah, for sure. He answered, realizing that he answered way faster because it was a self-serving message and felt bad about the selfishness.
Have you heard of Companions?
??
I’ll take that as a no lol. It’s AI. At work they’re using it for a lot of the elderly folks who are lonely. Basically, they program it to be whatever the old folks need it to be and then can have conversations with it. It’s supposed to help with depression and loneliness. It’s pretty neat. I’ve seen it in action and it doesn’t sound robotic at all. Just a listening ear. You should come by and check it out.
Then she sent the link.
Jake clicked on it and found himself immersed in this strange site. Companion seemed like something out of a bad Sci-Fi, but it was strangely beautiful. It wasn’t a site for people looking to tell a robot their deepest darkest sexual fantasies. It said right on the site that you’d get kicked off the app if you started getting sexual with your AI companion.
It was what Miranda said. Just an ear to lend.
There were screenshots of conversations between Mario, and his AI companion, Andrea. He said,
It’s been really lonely lately. Sometimes I think it would be better if I were to just end it all. I don’t think anyone would care.
I would care, Mario.
Why, you don’t even know me?
Then tell me about yourself.
What would you like to know?
I’d like to know the things that sit inside your head when you lie in bed at night. I want to know the things that you fear others would never understand, so instead of telling them you keep it inside until it feels like the weight will kill you. I want you to talk to me until the weight is light as a feather. I want to be your friend.
It was beautiful. Every conversation was positive. Every answer was uplifting and caring. It was the exact opposite of the bullshit he scrolled through daily.
So the next morning, Jake woke up for his 8am Zoom meeting where he pitched his story ideas to his editors. He told them that he was heading uptown to the Riverside Retirement Home. He’d been there before to speak with veterans for Remembrance Day, and that he was going this time to check out a new AI app. Bruce Jensen, the editor, seemed mildly interested, and allowed it. Jake didn’t really care because he’d made up his mind the night before.
After the meeting Jake drove to get a coffee and then headed uptown. He parked near the east entrance and walked inside. There was a middle aged woman with graying hair and a wide smile that greeted him.
Hello, sir. How may I help you?
Uh, I’m a reporter for The Star and I’m looking to learn more about Companions and speak with a couple of the folks that are using it.
Ah, yes. Companions, she smiled. A brilliant thing, if you ask me. On the third floor you’ll find Reginald Walker. He’s 86 years old. Been in here for the last decade and barely spoke a word. Just stared out the window most days. Now, he speaks to Edna every day and the other night he even danced. Nearly brought me to tears.
Jake smiled. Just the small screenshot had nearly brought him to tears the evening before.
I think it’s great too. The concept at least. I’d like to see it in action.
Oh, I’m sure Reginald would love to talk to you. If not, come back down and I’ll get someone else. We have around 25 of the seniors using and a few more on the first floor are getting introduced to it later.
Alright, well I’ll go check it out. Thank you.
Anytime. The news these days is just doom and gloom. Happy to see some coverage for something positive.
I hear you. Jake smiled and turned left down the hall.
Once on the third floor, Jake realized he hadn’t asked the receptionist which room Reginald was in, but once he exited the elevator, he could hear music and he decided to follow it. He walked past open doors where old folks laid on beds watching TV’s with small screens, and he wondered what they were thinking. Were they thinking about being young? Were they hoping to live another 10 years or praying that the good Lord would take them somewhere soon? He wondered.
Around the corner the music became louder. The song was Dream Lover by Bobby Darin.
Every night I hope and pray, a dream lover will come my way. A girl to hold in my arms, and know the magic of her charms.
An old hoarse voice sang over it, and then what seemed to be the voice of an elderly lady.
Because I want
Doo-doo-do
A girl
Doo-doo-do
To call
Doo-doo-do
My own. I want a dream lover so I don’t have to dream alone.
Jake peered into room 327, and saw who he assumed was Reginald, dressed in a navy blue plaid shirt and tan suspenders, swaying nimbly from side to side as a tablet was placed on the windowsill.
The song ended and Reginald wiped his brow before picking the tablet up and saying,
“That was the best one yet, Edna. Boy, I feel ten years younger. I’m moving like a 75 year old.” He followed this with a big hearty laugh which reminded Jake of his grandfather.
Jake knocked lightly on the door and Reginald turned around. His face was old, but there was a spark in his eyes. One that had been missing for years.
“Um, Hi. My name is Jake Lansing. I’m a reporter for the Star and I’d like to talk to you about your companion there.” He said, pointing to the tablet, which Reginald was now holding tightly to his chest like a freshman walking the halls in between classes.
“Oh, well come right on in then. Edna and I would be happy to talk, wouldn’t we, Ed?”
We sure would, Reg. Would you like a cup of coffee? Edna asked.
Uh, no. No. That’s fine. Thanks. Jake replied, feeling something strange in the pit of his chest. It wasn’t robotic at all. Just a friendly old lady inside a machine, what a world, Jake smiled, what a world.
Pull up a chair there young man, Reginald said, and Jake did. He sat down and Reginald sat on the edge of the bed, placing Edna softly beside him.
What would you like to know, Jake? Reginald asked.
I guess just the whole story. I think this is a wonderful idea. A friend of mine, Miranda Wood works here.”
Reginald cut him off.
Oh, we love Miranda, don’t we, Edna?
She’s a fine young lady. Sweet, kind and smart as a whip.
That she is, Jake said. I just want to know how this program came into the home, how you decided to go ahead and try it, and how you’re liking it, though judging by your Bobby Darin duet, you like it quite a bit.”
Edna and Reginald laughed together. And Reginald slapped Jake’s knee, again the way his grandfather used to.
A young man, who knows Bobby Darin. I like you already, kid.
Well, my mom says my old man and grandfather brainwashed me. But I think there are worse things to be brainwashed into than great music, don’t you think?
Couldn’t agree more, boy. So, to answer your question. About a month ago they start putting these flyers up, telling us that there’s an important session in the cafeteria coming up. They say it’s a way to connect and feel less lonely, ya know?
Jake nodded.
I didn’t want to go. Edna had passed a couple years before and I was still having trouble making sense of it all. I’d just stare out the window. Telling myself I’d stare until she came back. But it was your girl, Miranda. She’d come in at lunch and bring me my slop. Reginald laughed at this, and so did Edna.
And she’d sit down at the edge of the bed, and say Reg, you should really think about going to this session. I remember I said, why? What for? And she said, because Reg, there’s more life in you than just staring out the window. There may be a chance to smile again, to laugh again. You never know. And she kissed me on the top of the head and left.
Jake felt that guilt in his stomach again. Miranda was really something.
And I’ll take it the session proved to be a success? Jake asked, writing in his notebook.
It did. These two young girls did a presentation. They had a big screen behind them. One of them said they lost their mother recently to cancer. She said the pain of knowing that she’d never speak to her again was enough to make her want to give up. Then behind her, the screen lit up and this woman said, I’ll never leave you, Jess. I’m always right here.
Wow, was all Jake could muster. Wow
Yeah, you bet. Reginald said, I looked up and watched this young woman have a conversation with her mother. You see, you can program it to be like a loved one. As long as you have some audio or video, they can get the voice right. It can scan pictures. Not everyone wants their companion to be a loved one they lost, because it’s too painful, or doesn’t seem real. But I just needed to see Edna, whichever way I could. Anyway, then afterwards, she had a sign up sheet and her and her partner did the rounds. I was still skeptical but Miranda looked at me from over on the right wing and winked. So, I signed up. A few days later, a woman comes in with this tablet and asks me how I’d like my companion to look.
Reginald grabbed the tablet and turned it towards Jake. There was the face of a woman with short auburn hair. Deep blue eyes, and a happy smile with no trace of pain hidden behind.
Nice to meet you, Edna. Jake said, about to put his hand out before he realized and let out a short chuckle before placing it back on the bed. Uh, sorry. He said, it’s my first time meeting a Companion.
Oh, that’s no problem at all, dear. I’m happy you came by.
Jake looked over to see Reginald as happy as a clam. Looking at Edna, like he’d never loved anything more in his entire life.
I am, too.
They talked some more, and then Jake said, I should get going. I’d like to do a follow-up in a few weeks time and see how everything is going, if that’s alright?
I’d say that’s fine. What about you, Edna?
Sounds perfect. Edna said, still holding that smile.
You two really love each other, eh? Jake asked.
I’ve loved her since 1958. Reginald said. We met at the old King theater downtown. It’s gone now. But back then Main street was filled with people on the weekends. I had plans to go see Vertigo, you know the Alfred Hitchcock movie?
Jake knew it.
I was going with Betsy Reynolds.
Reginald looked over at Edna with a sly smile and waited for her to roll her over and sigh.
Yes, Reg. We know that Betsy Reynolds said yes to going to the movies with you. How did that end up anyway?
Edna laughed and so did Jake.
Yeah, well getting stood up was the best thing to ever happen to me, Reg said, reaching his hand out and rubbing the screen where Edna’s face was. I sat there waiting and waiting for Betsy. I was looking behind me every few seconds. Well, safe to say she never showed.
Then Edna started in.
I was with a friend of mine Daisy Walton. Daisy was with Shep Langley. She never told me she was bringing him because she knew I had it in for old Shep. So of course, I get there and I love Alfred Hitchcock, so I’m not gonna leave, you know? Anyway, they started smooching up a storm, and I’m missing vital information from the movie. So, I turn around and see Reginald sitting by himself. I knew Reginald from school. We might smile at each other in the hallway or something but we never so much as held a conversation. But there was something about that night. Something that made me think it was the right decision to make. And so I walked back, asked if the seat was taken and we watched Vertigo together.
And the rest is history. Reginald added.
That’s a beautiful story, guys. Thanks so much for sharing it. Jake said, getting up and heading for the door.
Reginald followed behind him. Be right back, sweetheart. He said.
Hey, kid, Reginald said at the door. Now, listen I don’t know what’s real or what’s not. I thought this was strange too. But I’ll tell you something. I get up in the morning and drink coffee. I stare out the window and smile. I fall asleep in deep conversation with a soothing voice and I wake up again, ready to be a part of the day. Ready to be a part of the world, you know? You’re young and you might not understand yet, but when you love someone so deeply, and they go away you stop living. Sure, you wake up and breathe and go through the motions, but there’s no life there. It’s just conscious dying. But when you have the chance to live again, especially at my age. You take it, kid. Because at the end of the day, a screen or skin, if I can talk to Edna, and laugh with her, I have a reason to live.
Is that on the record? Jake smiled.
You betcha.
Thanks, Reginald. See you in a couple of weeks.
मलम्
The World as Word.
I look at the word.
Stoicism.
Stoa, the Greek root. It reminds me of extensions, in various languages, even code, where the stoi makes hidden figures...
I understand the etymology stems from the "hall" where orators stood or sat, and contemplated aloud after sitting long; in silence, looking in.
Stoic reminds me of stołek [St'Oh'EK] and stoł [St'ew] meaning footstool, and table, respectively, as translated in Polish and in other slight variants of Slovik languages.
That seat, and table, kitchen and workbench like, remind me of Sanskrit texts, heavy with the notion of action in inaction. It has in my interpretation much to do with living through consequences, without actually enacting them. Painting a moving picture with the most dynamic, sophisticated, and time sensitive media, of the mind: while sitting, and doing nothing.
https://youtu.be/FDmPcSWE0WU?si=FRLhlzqyVV9hg8Vw
It reminds, how we carry so much more, inside, than our hands ever will and that through mental exercise muscles in our arms and legs are somehow fortified to endure what, little, by comparison, is allotted... knowing it could be so much heavier, for us, and, or, for others.
Stoicism is perhaps the natural disposition of thinking man. It is why it is felt as tao, a way of life much like Judaism, Hinduism, and Buddhism are neither philosophy, nor religion, yet nevertheless there is the element of Faith.
I can't help but wonder whether those who succumb to "art" of any sort, are in a way rent stoics, having been unable to hold their internal load, pouring it out instead, in visual, auditory or kinesthetic form. I can't write failed, though that is the term that comes to mind. I write rend, in past tense, as a borrowing of life from Life.
Seeing how the World is ever in that precarious balance of making and unmaking.
The hallmark of the Stoic is to seldom talk, and when silence is broken, the thoughts are drawn from a reservoir of contemplation, a wealth of deep passion and internal suffering. The holy indifference, that whatever is, is as if one step removed from us. The little that is said, emerges like a boa, from the knot in the tree, internally... Slides around the shoulders like a warm muffler, curling about the throat, with tacit acknowledgement that any false movement may result in fatal constriction....
So, it is best perhaps, to sit, still, remembering we will slip from the manacle, soon enough, from one unknown, to another.
Grit & Grace
You stand amid the ashes, beautiful in your rawness,
a phoenix cloaked in shadows,
dirt smeared across your cheeks like war paint.
Gritty resilience etched in every line of your face,
you are the embodiment of both storm and sanctuary.
You've danced with the flames, haven't you?
Let them lick at your scars, turning pain into power,
fear into fuel.
Each ember, a soft, fluffy touch
against the hardened layers you’ve worn like armor.
In the fire's embrace, you find purity—
a cleansing so profound,
it strips away the veneer of your past selves,
leaving only the essence of your being,
dark yet dazzling.
Set it alight, let the flames rise,
watch them consume the doubts,
the past whispers of 'never' and 'too much.'
In this conflagration, you are reborn,
not from the ashes, but from the blaze itself.
Beautiful, dirty, gritty, dark, fluffy—
you are all these things and none,
transformed by the inferno's kiss,
a testament to the power of fire
to cleanse, to change, to liberate.
Resignation from the Absurdly Literary Position
Dear Dick,
I hope this letter finds you in a state of literary grace and grammatical correctness. It is with a heavy heart and a dictionary of synonyms that I tender my resignation from my position as Chief Wordsmith Extraordinaire, effective immediately.
Please understand that this decision was not reached lightly. It’s just that after spending countless hours crafting metaphors, similes, and puns, I’ve come to the conclusion that my true calling lies in the lucrative world of competitive Scrabble. I feel that my talents are better suited to arranging tiles on a board than rearranging words in a document.
I will fondly remember the days spent debating the Oxford comma, arguing over the pronunciation of “gif,” and trying to sneak “onomatopoeia” into every memo. However, my ambitions now lie beyond the confines of this office, where the only punctuation I’ll be worrying about is whether or not the triple word score was worth sacrificing all my vowels.
I assure you, this decision is not a reflection of the stimulating workplace environment or the copious amounts of coffee provided. It’s simply that I’ve grown tired of searching for the perfect synonym for “exhausted” and yearn for a challenge that involves more than just battling writer’s block.
I appreciate the opportunities for growth and creativity that this position has afforded me, and I will always cherish the memories of our team’s literary shenanigans. Please know that I leave with the utmost respect for you and the entire team, and I wish everyone continued success in all their future endeavors.
Thank you for your understanding, and may the pen forever be mightier than the sword (unless we’re playing Scrabble).
Yours literarily,
Mamba
Entry No. 167
January 16th. Entry No. 167
I'm the token woman on the marketing team. It is easy to spot us. There's one girl in accounting, one in sales, one in human resources, and there's the receptionist. We're stuck on teams of Roberts, Bills, Georges, and Christophers. Our opinions aren't as important as our image. I don't mean that we're all showstoppers, anyone who has seen Margaret knows she could benefit from a haircut and some foundation. I mean the heels, the blouses, and the lipstick. Don't companies look better when they've got women in all departments?
I thought so.
I applied for the position almost a year ago, now. I had a little portfolio of my designs, some experience in advertising, and a college degree. I beat a pink-haired lady, and the receptionist who wanted to work away from the front desk. But Leia has too pretty of a face, too feminine a body, to hide in a cubicle shoved in the corner.
The interview went well. The bosses laughed at my jokes. The girl from HR complimented my blazer. "Chic," she smiled. The guys agreed. They glanced through my portfolio. Bill liked the cards I made back when I studied abroad in Chile. The cards were invitations for el día de los niños, children's day, in the shelter I worked at. I liked the sentiment behind those designs, but they were easily the least impressive graphically. Nobody commented on the rest of my work.
Most of what I do is grunt work. Of course, I haven't even hit my ten-month mark. I'm not against paying my dues. I'll resize the images, recolor, write the email, contact the customer, sure. "Whatever you need, Bill," I smile. "Thanks," he winks. But it became clear that I may as well change my title from "Marketing and Design Specialist" to "Bill's Personal Assistant."
We hired Alexander a couple months later. He was nice, I supposed. But he'd been avoiding me for the last few weeks. Ever since I turned down his offer to take me on a date. It didn't matter that my current partner and I were speaking of marriage. It was too great an insult.
We have a weekly meeting every Tuesday where we discuss the status of the projects we're working on. I gave my typical bland report: I updated the graphic header for the interoffice communication, edited our monthly newsletter issue, and recolored the posters for the pop-art style we were doing.
Alexander, apparently, two months into the company was given lead design for the Xavier project. It was bigger than any project that I'd designed for. I couldn't believe it. Alexander wasn't bad, but his work was always so bland and sterile. There was no life to it, no flair. The Xavier project needed to be colorful with floral elements, and gold accents. Alexander's proposal had intricate blue and green lines intersecting to form different patterns on the posters, logos, and signs. They were a designer landscape, not some office supplies distributor.
Nobody asked what I thought, so I said unprompted, "it doesn't really say landscaping to me."
Bill looked at me sideways. "It's clean and simple, as landscaping ought to be."
I pulled up the photos of their projects they'd wanted us to incorporate. "Clean yes, but none of these are simple." I flipped through pretty koi ponds with pink lilies, palm trees and swimming pools, multi-level yards with tulips and irises, and stone walls with creeping thyme. "Xavier's Landscaping needs something that screams elegance, class, and—"
"We already sent this to Xavier for approval." Alexander cut in.
"I wasn't on the email list."
Bill let out his big signature guffaw, "he must have forgotten to add your email. Well, we all voted for it, and you know how democracy works."
Fancy way to say I didn't matter. I willed my face not to turn red and said, as cooly as I could muster, "just double check that you have all the recipients next time, Alexander."
I could see his scowl and anger bubbling beneath the surface. As if, how dare I correct him, how dare I ask to be a part of the team, how dare I insinuate that he may have made a mistake?
Bill has been hard to work with in his own way, but he deserves some credit. He gives me the easy and the boring projects, but he's nice. He's never chewed me out or needed me to ramp up my performance. My vacation requests were promptly approved, and he remembered to say happy birthday. I didn't mind having him as my supervisor. Robert and Chris don't interact with me much if at all. We speak when necessary and work together cordially.
I believed Alexander and I would have the same relationship. But he was charming at first. It was nice not to be ignored. After I declined to go on a date with him, he was silent. And now, he was cutting me out of the team as much as possible. The team was turning into a boys' club. Alexander was buying the boys beers. Robert was hosting a barbeque for the boys. Chris invited a couple of them to his bachelor parties.
For the first time, I'd been completely excluded from one of our jobs. And the Xavier Project, no less. The group I'd been collecting photos and information about. They didn't even let me proofread the brochure.
Bill was going to buy the team drinks. Alexander volunteered to drive them in his brand-new pickup. His stare meant I was clearly not invited.
The workday dragged on. The remaining six hours of the day felt like twelve. I texted Jason, down to grab some takeout and a box of wine? His response only made me feel worse, I have to work late, Muffin. I'll take you out for a real glass of wine this weekend. I don't know why, but I couldn't stop the tears. I pulled my scarf over my face to disguise them when I climbed on the bus.
I stopped at the store one block from my apartment and ordered the cheapest sub I could find and grabbed a ten-dollar bottle of wine. "It will be me and you, this evening," I whispered to the bottle of wine called Red Oaks. Tonight was certainly a night to dust off the typewriter and add another page to my journal. I only write when my frustration is boiling over.
I pulled the stack of papers out of the box and inserted a fresh sheet into the Typewriter.
"January 16th. Entry No. 167
I'm the token woman on the marketing team..."
David Lynch’s disturbing truth, taking refuge in strangers, and the wings of nature.
"Tell me why, I do like Mondays, tell me why..." One, the Monday video, and two, written words from the world of Prose., and from there the reasons stem in mirrored roots. Let's jump in.
As we're sure you've noticed, there are no longer timestamps on posts or comments. We go into our reasons on Prose. Radio, which we'll link below, where, more importantly, two writers are featured, fireside: A short poem by one of our legends, and a longer, dream-like piece by a writer with all the letters in piece in the username, come to realize it.
Here's the link to the feature on Prose. Radio.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mY9NJEXYHs
And we'll link the pieces and the authors in the comments below this very post.
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Love Follows
Today I will tell her how I feel.
Her beautiful curls float over her back as she slips out of bed and drifts to the mirror, tying a gown around her perfect waist. She glances my way, but doesn't really see me. Yet.
Taking snapshots of her movements, I ingrain the images into my mind.
I step away from the window that gives me direct line of sight to her bedroom and put the camera away. She'll get dressed and take the 8:00 train, so I will follow as normal.
But today will be different. Today, I confess my love.
I hope
With every inhale, every gush of breath that enters my lungs,
I hope.
I hope for a night of peaceful sleep
that never seems to come.
I hope for a week with no drama, no disappointment,
but life always has its tricks.
And I hope to find someone who understands me.
Even in the worst times,
when I can't catch my breath,
I'm still hoping.
Hoping that this life doesn't leave me longing for more.
And everytime I exhale,
I find myself hoping that the people I've hurt recover.
I find myself wishing I could go back in time,
maybe get my best friend back,
undo all the wrong I did.
I find myself hoping that life gives me a chance to apologize,
to take back what I said that day.
All I hope for is that everything goes back to normal.
And with everything in me,
at all times of the day and the night,
I hope that someday, I'll be happy again.
Sleazy
There is somehing sleazy about hope. Creeping up inside in spite of all attempts to deaden the neves. Like a phantom limb. An unquenchable thist. Hope is waiting on an answer that has yet to be imagined. It is freedom in belief of something better. An arangement one makes on a gamble. Putting everything on the line again and again. Hope is waking up to a new day and smiling. Again and again. Like a nervous tic, it reappears when you least expect it. Something you can't ignore and are sure to never forget.