My Life as a Machine: Waiting Machine

The summer before I graduated, my life took a different turn. It felt like my dreams were trying to tell me something. “Cheer up,” said my dream about being a cheerleader. “You’re self-assured,” said my naked dream half. “You may have a deep seated grudge, so look at it,” murmured another dream. I was tired of not knowing.

What will I do with my life?

I tried to submerge my mind into the river of possibilities. Should I continue acting? Or should I continue acting like I care? Should I keep modeling? Or should I model my life now as it has always been?

What will it be?

In the end, the machinery stalled, and I simply stared into a downgraded laptop with half-hearted hopes. I wanted to write, draw, and free myself from this planet, but the mere existence I held extended to nothing more than thoughts and actions and consequences.

I was bored. And I was trapped inside a routine. And I was happy in the routine.

But the strain began to crumple in the segments of my heart. Where was he? Where was this so-called soulmate? I was starting to crack beneath the impossible weight of being alone. Every day, that summer, I didn’t search for him, but he didn’t appear, either. What was wrong with this Earth?

If the world suddenly fractured, would I find him there? Maybe, maybe not. But I do know how unhappy I really am, or moreso, how this weird void continues to haunt me. I mean, I have everything else, and you can’t be perfect though.

The ditch was almost filled because no one could dive into it willingly. I don’t think anything changed it.

I’m still alone.

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