Decishisfaction

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.