Experimental Fiction / D.S. Variety.

Catering to the whims of the lazy and stubborn is not the fault of the lazy and stubborn. It is the fault of those who feel the need to reach out a guiding hand when none should be offered; not till we have lost the world do we begin to find ourselves, and so it should be forever more. The school of hard knocks and the enterprise of deficiency.

When the thoughts of the givers are lowered to satisfy the given, we all suffer.

Part Four.

I'm learning more and more that the problems that faced me in the past continue to meet me in the future. I'm learning that they're much more intertwined than I previously thought.

I walk home in the dark, the cool breeze comforting me.

Mark Twain said that age is an issue of mind over matter: if you don't mind, it doesn't matter. I agree wholeheartedly, but would like to extend it to any issue; for if the issue doesn't matter to you, you won't mind pushing through it. This includes relationships and new ventures along that same line.

Some kids in a car stop at a stop sign and shout things at me. I laugh quietly and continue walking.

Lately it's been all about her, and what I can do to strengthen this bond, if you can even call it that yet. I'm further along than I thought, I think, and that's something I didn't expect. Up until now we've had a harmless relationship; either of us could have cut it off and it wouldn't have mattered that much. Things are changing, though, and scary as it is, I must change too.

Hardly anyone is walking the street, but one man with a guitar passes me. I wonder of his ability, then think nothing more of it.

I understand the need to keep going. I do. What's throwing me off is my surprise about the situation.

The difference is that this time, I know I can make it through the other side in one piece.

Experimental Fiction / D.S. Variety.

Transcribed from droplet #1397237535

Brain hemorrhages. Involuntary homicide. The less fortunate need not be explained their fate, for they have already met it. A shame, truly. But the question remains: what force determines our fate? Is there a God, a being, a feeling, that moves us along a path? Or is it on our own shoulders, weak and unintelligent by comparison? Neither option is encouraging to me.

Whose cide are you on? Homicide, genocide, infanticide, uxoricide, parricide... the list continues. I find it difficult to concentrate on other tasks when so much dark can be contained in one's heart. When a lack of regard for another life trumps the positive actions we no doubt possess. Perhaps when one reaches the brink and falls, it is not always their fault, but the fault of others. That, though, still leaves the ones who choose to fall. The ones who feel there is no returning from the moonswept dark.

How do we save the ones who don't want saving?

Part Three.

Some days you wake up and you just don't see it coming. The level of commitment that your mind and body has to accomplishing a task. At times it's remarkable, at others it's frustrating. Today it's a potent mix of both.

I sit up in my bed and begin to stretch. The pain is somehow soothing.

This appears to be day 3 of the week, and I wonder if she's already found somebody else. Crazy, I know. I just feel like I'm up against the world, and if I don't lock in, someone else will. I try not to think about it too much, though.

The sun enters through my window and I'm reminded of just how tired I am. I rub the crust from my eyes.

Perhaps I don't give myself enough credit. I look around the world at other people and I see what, in my opinion, makes myself better. Is this narcissism? Maybe. But I like to believe there's a fine line between narcissism and confidence.

I like to believe there's still hope for me yet.

Part Two.

Another day, another dollar. That's what they say. This depression is like a hangover, and no amount of money in the world can cure it.

I still can't remember what she looks like. If I ran into her in the street, I'd be afraid I wouldn't recognize her and make myself look like a damn fool. But let's be honest: I'd remember her. Her smile would send me back to those moments quite easily were I lucky enough to see it again.

I sit in this doctor's office. Not sick of the body, but sick of the mind.

I heard she's been through a tough relationship recently. I was sorry to hear that. I really was. Am I wrong for preying on her like this? Glad that she's not in a relationship, glad that she might be vulnerable? I don't think I'm wrong. Nobody else seems to think they're wrong when they do it. Then again, if everybody jumped off a bridge . . .

Someone goes in to see the good ol' doc. I swear I was here before them.

All good things must come to an end, they say. I've even said it to myself as a way to move on. But I don't believe it. Maybe I just don't like the idea of letting it go, maybe I just don't understand it. I think it's just a phrase people say because they're too afraid to hold on. They don't think they can actually acquire eternal sunshine. But I do.

An assistant talks into the phone: “I'm calling on behalf of Dr. Norman's office.” The door opens, and more children walk in.

Am I foolhardy for thinking that? Am I actually more naive than I think? I don't feel so. But then again, the crazy don't know they're crazy. Perhaps if I listen to an old song once more, I'll uncover a nugget I hadn't found before.

There's nothing more to say. I'm being called in now. I just have to push through the children to get there.

Part One.

I stood at the corner of the boulevard and people passed constantly. Not walking, but in cars. Flying by. Seemingly only giving me a passing glance and a fleeting thought until they were gone.

“Oh,” I imagined them saying, “he looks weird.” Or, “Oh, he looks lonely.”

Maybe they're right about the first point. But I can tell you right now, they're definitely right about the latter point.

What's weird is that I can't even remember her face after too long. I just remember little things: her red bangs that drape the sides of her face. The way she laughed when she accidentally dropped a spoon in the garbage. Her yellow shirt that she occasionally wears.

The wind blows harder and I involuntarily sway with it, looking like a fool.

I never knew I could get to this point. This pinnacle of appreciation for myself. I know, I know, just be yourself and everything will be fine. How was I to know that this little piece of advice would actually be true?

I guess I just need to push through. Through the fear, through the hopelessness. I mean, I've been good lately. Really good. But this is usually about the point when I slip off the edge of the cliff, and bounce back down to the bottom.

One car stops at the stop sign. I can see two women inside, talking and carrying on. Then they leave.

Can I stop myself this time, though? Can I hang on just long enough to climb back up if I need to? It feels like it. Then again, I've felt it before and look where that's got me.

There was a point where I had just given up. Honestly. I'd stopped dreaming. "What happens when the heart just stops," he says, "stops caring for anyone? The hollow in your chest dries up, and you stop believing." Sappy as it sounds, that was me down to a T. I really felt like it was the end of something.

As someone walked by me I became aware of the shape of my face, and rearranged it to look less depressed. It didn't hold, though.

I don't know. Maybe it's all in my head. Actually, it is all in my head. Were I to stop thinking so much, I'd presumably be fine. But then I wouldn't be a hopeless romantic. In love with love, loving and being loved.

Someone in a car looked at me funny as they drove past.

Lately I've lacked a desire to do anything. The guitar. Writing. Playing a video game. Watching a movie. Going for a walk. All I want to do is talk with her. Know more about her. How did she come to be the person she is today? In what ways has her heart been bruised and her thoughts enriched? These are the details I want to know. These are the ways I want to be connected with another person.

I keep hearing songs about love. I watch movies about love. I think about love. It doesn't matter if it's good or bad love, sturdy or broken love, bright or dull love—I absorb it all. And I ask myself: how can I, as one person, find someone else? There's so much chance involved. Two people, in the same place at the same time, who just happen to have things in common, and both decide to go for a relationship? And both actually enjoy it? I'm sorry if it seems impossible to me. Past experiences have given me reason to be pessimistic.

Across the street a beautiful girl walks by. Against my own wishes, I give her a personality and fantasize about what it would be like if she was actually interested. If she took the time to learn my story.

Even if one enters into a relationship, there's no guarantee it'll last. In fact, it's almost a certainty that it'll fail. Nine out of ten relationships end because those two people weren't right for each other to begin with, and half of the ones that get married get divorced. Yet I continue to dream about finding someone and being with them for the rest of my days. That's not to say I'm naive: there would be problems, unforeseen consequences, and tiny slipups here and there. I know nothing worth having comes easy. But I feel it would be easier if I had someone to help bear the burden.

More wind. It's colder now, and the sun is getting better acquainted with the horizon.

I don't even know what I'm going on about anymore. I feel more full, more confident, now that I've sorted through things and organized them in my mind. Still not great. But better.

I guess I just need to push through.