You're quite special.

You pretend not to break under trivial misconceptions, and then you pose a singularly answerable question, unconsciously gathering a desire to hear my retort to the mindlessness. Casually, I disarm the enemy with things you should already know, but surprisingly ignore until I validate them. Your blindness isn't disappointing or foolish, but an enlightening example of my own self-deconstruction.

In my own pretenses of manhood, I continue to allow you to ask the questions I'm lucidly aware of and attempt to answer them for both our sakes. Your approval of my answer will always warrant new confidences.

Still, they are silly questions, stupid questions, but don't stop asking me.

I like telling you that you're quite special.

My third Omegle conversation after being disconnected twice because I am a boy:


You: Hello.

Stranger: hola..

You: If you disconnect me because I have a Y chromosome...I will be upset.

Stranger: habla e3spanol?

You: Haha.

You have disconnected.

Goodbye.

That's an impassable hill.
I've failed to climb it on several occasions.
It's rejected me three times, to be exact.
I have no idea what's on the other side.
Or what my motivation is.
Why do I keep trying, I wonder.
Impassable isn't an exaggeration.
I should know that by now.
The hill doesn't care what I accomplish.
It's just interested in being a hill.

So, I've decided to give up.
I put down my tools and protections.
The hill can be a hill.
There is no reason to pursue it.
More climbers will come.
Ones more suited to climbing the hill.
I can't watch them climb it any longer.
I see in them, my own shortcomings.
And then, I wonder.
What is it I lack to climb you...

Goodbye

Filler

I've been stuck in your emptiness.
I'm your bridge between the worthy epochs.
I'm the hand that lifts you up.
I help you look forward.
I exist only in your past.

I'm your filler.

Pining

I miss when I seconded as a pillow, despite my lack of cushiony brawn.

I miss when my heart beat was a mellifluous cadence, drumming you to sleep.

You were just a silly girl.

I am still just a silly boy.

I wonder if you miss anything...?

No?

Aw. K.

Gertrude

There isn't much to sitting. All you have to do is bend your knees and relax. It is a reaction to fatigue, a reflex. Your mind tells your body that your legs are tired. You sit. This is simple.

Still, Gertrude preferred to believe there was an expertise to sitting, a system, even a style. She said it didn't depend on how you sat, but why you were sitting. Some did it to relax, and others to quench their laziness. Others, still, sat to stimulate thought, preferring comfort over pacing.

How many, I wonder, sat the way she did?

"Time is mine. Sitting's just the easiest way to make sure of it."

"That seems a little juvenile."

"Well, I'm seventeen. It makes sense."

"No, I mean it seems childish. There are a million other things you could be doing with your time."

"Exactly. There are a million other things. That's why I like to sit. It's the act of not doing something."

I wondered why I liked her. I mean, I really thought about it.

Gertrude pulled the hair out of her face, and she kept colouring the birthday sign.

I remembered why I liked her.

Juvenile? I was a hypocrite...

Subjugation

You suppress and destroy all dissidents. Their retaliation to injustice rests while your false light blinds them, suppressing sight to truth. Light that serves to blind is not a true light. You deceive all whose political ground would serve to quash your authoritarianism. Surely, the nuances of opinion can't govern the multifariousness of unquantifiably diverse individuals.

I would be willing to endure the pains of change, no matter how agonizing the peripeteia, so long as the birth of understanding remains at the foreground of the new age.