đ°đĄđđ§Â  đđ¨Â  đ˛đ¨đŽÂ  đŤđđđĽđ˘đłđ  đ˛đ¨đŽÂ  đĽđ¨đŻđ  đŹđ¨đŚđđ¨đ§đ?
when  silence  is  comfort  -  when  you  get  closer  slowly  over  time,     unspoken  with  no  words  required  to  express  it.     when  you  call  them,    just  to  be  talking  in  intervals  and  realize  that  it's  not  even  really  an  ongoing  conversation,    just  hearing  their  ambient  sounds  on  the  other  line  is  enough.     when  you  invite  them  over,     just  to  sit  down  and  watch  a  movie  together.     you  know  the  heavy  impact  words  can  have,     and  how  abrasive  they  can  be.    but  you  also  understand  that  silence  can  be  deafening,     and  that  the  phrase    "things  are  better  left  unspoken"     has  negative  connotations  but  sometimes,     they  are  better  left  unsaid,     even  if  it's  an    "i  love  you."     because  you  know  they  know  it  and  are  saying  it  back,  too.
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[Talking about going pro in art] We do not overidentify with our jobs. We may take pride in our work, we may stay late and come in on weekends, but we recognize that we are not our job descriptions. The amateur, on the other hand overidentifies with his avocation, his artistic aspiration. Â He defines himself by it. He is a musician, a painter, a playwright. Resistance loves this. Resistance knows that the amateur composer will never write his symphony because he is overly invested in its success and overterrified of its failure. The amateur takes it so seriously it paralyzes him.
Don't ask me what this is. I don't know. I was minding my own business, reading fic, when a scene pops in my head. It's amazingly clear and it's "just a scene". So I typed it up.
âYou are such a fucking hypocrite!â He hissed.
âWhâwhat?â She could feel the muscles in her face twitch as she felt her smile fall.
âA hypocrite! You come bouncing in her every morning, chattering like an excited chipmunk on speed, barfing rainbows and âspreading a little good cheerâ. And if I say anything, that you need to calm down, be more serious, I get a lecture about how it's just how you are and I have to except that as we have to work together. But you! You get to tell me how to be! You get to tell me to cheer up, smile, be happy for once. You don't have to except that this is how I am. How I like to be!"
"But I-"
"No," he continues without hearing her, "I have to change for you! Here!â He threw the file down on her desk and he watched as her shocked eyes fell to it, before raising to his again. âThank fuck that this project is done and you don't have to âwork on fixing my grumpy attitudeâ
Turning on his heal, he stalked back to his own cubical, glad it was in the far corner, away from most others. Settling a pair of earphones on his head, he drowned out the idle chatter that sprung up as the others of the floor tried to get through their boring day, and started on the work that piled up when he got pulled for that stupid project.
He didn't know how much time had passed when he sat up to stretch. It had to be close to quitting time for the masses, but he still had quite a backlog that had to be finished by Friday. He had opened the next file when a shadow appeared in the opening of his cubical. He ignored it and it disappeared.
He ignored it when it appeared the next day as well.
And the next.
And the day after that.
He only realized it didn't appear the following day when it was back on Friday. This time she leaned in and placed a cup of shitty break room coffee by his keyboard. He finished the paragraph before he looked up.
She stood there, lip held between her teeth as her hand nervously twisted her own cup.
âYes?â
âI'm sorry.â
He raised an eyebrow.
âYou are right. No one should have be what they are not for someone else.â She opened her mouth again, hesitated, closed her mouth and turned away. He watched her take a few steps before she turned back. âI asked to work with you on this project.â
His eyebrow raised again.
âIt's just, I know I'm new, but I love this job. I love working with everybody and you're always out here.â She waved to indicated the space between him and the nearest workspace. âYou never join in any conversations and you never smile. Our work is amazing and you never smile. I thoughtââ She shrugged. âI thought, maybe if we worked together, I could get to know you, maybe get you to smile. That's all I wanted.â she flashes a watery smile at him. âI'll, uh, see you Monday?â
She turns again and he watches her until the elevator doors hid her from sight.
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You watch them day after day. They are a set of two, sometimes three. You watch them and regardless the gender, color, religion, you see them as a bomb. Numbers cascade before your eyes. They arenât always numerical numbers, but actions that somehow equate into seconds, hours, months, and years. They are a timer ticking down to an explosion.
You blink.
You open your eyes and the numbers are still there. That canât be right. No love is relegated to numbers. No love can be simplified down to actions that give or detract from the timer. No love is a volcano waiting, ticking, building to erupt. That isnât how life is supposed to go.
You blink again. This time you scrunch your eyelids tightly until a kaleidoscope of colors flash in your mind. No more numbers, you think. Let the numbers go away. Yet, when you open your eyes, the light recedes. The numbers are still there.
What else will make the numbers go away?
Youâre only twelve the first time the numbers assault you. Youâve never been good at math, but humans arenât numbers. For that, humans seem easier to compute. You understand the basic complexities of given human nature. Friendship=Trust+Love. Itâs not that simple when youâre young, but the basic concept is ingrained.
You watch your two friends arguing. Youâre all just twelve. It canât be that bad. Theyâre arguing over an actor in Lord of the Rings which seems particularly ridiculous to you, but they take it to a new level. Again the three of your are only twelve. Itâs just a silly game.
But then you blink.
As you open your eyes everything becomes different. At quarter-mast light filters in. It isnât like the kaleidoscope you sometimes see when you squeeze your eyes tightly nowadays. It is the light of a new story, a new dawn.
A breath, just one, while you open your eyes to half mast, new forms appear. These arenât your friends or rather these are your friends of a future you do not understand. They are older. No, not old. They do not have friendly conversation. In fact, they stare just beyond each other.
It doesnât compute at first.
You are only twelve after all.
When your eyes finally finish opening, thereâs nothing new about them. They are your two best friends arguing in the playground over an actor from the Lord of the Rings. At the same time, it isnât the same. Youâve seen something in the slits of your eyes somewhere between closing your eyes and opening them again.
A number appears in the back of your mind. It is small and insignificant, almost like the time your watch displays. Some part of you listens to it though; listens to the unimportant numbers: 00: 09: 03.
The truth of that doesnât hit until one year later.
Youâre at a new school. You have a new town. You have new classes. You have new friends.
Your best friend is dating someone. Itâs teen love in some ways. Itâs teenage angst in more ways. You eat lunch with them one afternoon, two thirteen year olds and a fourteen year old. Itâs like any other lunch since youâve moved to this school and gathered them as your friends.
Again, though, you blink. It doesnât take as long this time. Itâs a quick press of eyelids before youâre opening them to the small cafeteria and you see. It isnât only your best friend and the young man sheâs dating, but a few of your other friends that youâve managed to collect. The numbers surround them. They are composed of clocks ticking backwards. They are composed of invisible numbers that only you can see.
A grin and you blink through it. You blame it on whatever is handy at the moment: lack of sleep, too much homework, just the right amount of cafeteria food.
No one notices it. A momentary lapse in your speech is hardly anything to be worried about. As you rejoin the conversation, they greet you back as if nothing has ever been wrong. Maybe there is nothing wrong. Itâs just a phantom, something you have only experienced once. At least, it is something you only remember experiencing once.
That last sentence stops you, even then.
The numbers nibble at the back of your mind, just below the cerebral cortex.
00: 01: 01.
A month and one week later, your best friend breaks up with her boyfriend.
It isnât surprising. Youâre both only thirteen after all.
This is what you tell yourself on the strange days where you watch someone and the numbers crash against you. You donât even need to blink anymore. One second youâre watching your friends. The next, youâre watching the numbers inside your mind.
You pen them down in a secret journal, which is only a piece of paper in the back of two pocket folder. Watching with trepidation, you cross out the ones that are false; you put a checkmark beside the ones that are real. You have an eighty-five percent success rate, rounded down, of course.
It stings more than you will ever be able to express.
Two years flow by you. The numbers become a challenge to escape and you are able to catch more formulas. None of them are as simple as friendship. Love has so many variables, you can hardly keep up with them all. Not to mention, as you grow older, love is not merely the act of two people falling in love. Love has to do with so many things: parents and children, siblings, distant family, close friends, distant friends, people you wrap yourself up in, and the list goes on.
It is hard to pinpoint every variable. You stop trying. You only process what your eyes see. It isnât always actual numbers. Sometimes there are only action and reactions. They are sometimes all you need. At least, they are sometime the only thing that the numbers rely on.
You donât know how itâs fair that your mind can look at someone you know and think about a timer. You sometimes hear the numbers ticking down in your head, like youâre baking a catastrophe in your mind.
Youâre eighteen when you lose your first friend.
He says to you, âI think this one will last. I think this one will make it.â
Youâve had these thoughts sheltered inside you for so long; you donât even realize youâre saying your next sentence out loud until itâs too late. âOne year, six months, give or take a few days.â
Of course, you have to have a very long argument. You try to retract what you said, but the fact remains that when he asks if thatâs what you really think, you say yes. It is really what you think and at that moment in time, you have an eighty-four percent success rate. You donât show him the papers. You donât give him your rate of accuracy.
He leaves your house and never comes back.
He is one of the sixteen percent, and his tallyâyou think of it as a tally now! What are you?âbrings your rate down to eighty-three percent, but then another friend breaks up with her boyfriend three months later. Your score is eighty-four percent again.
You wonder why you keep betting.
Blink.
Youâre here and now.
Your partner leans in to kiss you.
You close your eyes; squeeze them hard. A kaleidoscope bursts behind your eyelids and you try to keep hold of that. Lips touch yours, slightly chapped yet slick with the saliva their tongue has just nervously run across it. You push that away. Even though you arenât necessarily nervous, sixty-two percent of the people youâve kissed have been. Youâve been nervous fifty-eight percent of the time, especially when it comes to the first kiss.
You pull away with a content smile. The kaleidoscope is already fading from inside your mind. Their breath breathes against your skin, and you try to hold on to something, some spark, some feeling.
Youâre heart isnât racing though. Thereâs no jittering feeling. Thereâs no feeling at all.
Opening your eyes, you see the numbers: 00: 00: 03.
Three weeks then.
You wonder how much theyâll hate you in such a short amount of time.
