A walk in darkness

Feeling for light

Bumping your toe on the hard surface of determination

Toppled over onto the sun

Basking in the rays, as light shines through you and into the people unseen

Forming words with the softness of clouds

Speaking for the silenced

Healing wounds dripping like a rainstorm

Bellowing the joy and pain from deep within

Your soul

Mind

& being

The guy sitting in front of me had that dirty blonde hair that was messy and tousled. He had those piercing hazel eyes that could stop time and entrance you.

"I didn't know you liked to write," I say after his proclamation of love for writing and poetry. "I like writing, too." He props his elbows up on the table. His expression was kind, and he looked like he wanted hear my version of a proclamation of love.

The restaurant they were at, Ivy Vines, was a rather fancy restaurant, but with a more edgy feel to it. It had sleek chairs, delicious food, and lights strung everywhere. Darin, the date, said it was really good a few days ago.

We matched on a dating app, and we had been talking for hours, non-stop.

"Really?" He raises in eyebrow. "What kind of writing do you do?"

"Fiction. Sometimes romance. Kind of along those lines," I reply.

Darin smiles, his lips turning almost pinker. "Well," he says. "Describe your writing for me." My mouth presses into a line. Brows knit. "Please? For me?"

I laughed. "Okay, okay." It took a few moments to figure out what to say, but after I opened my mouth, the words rolled off my tongue. "My writing is almost like a dream, and a nightmare. I write a lot about mental health, because it was one of my close friends real life nightmares. And, it's important for people to learn about.

"Mental health is something very real. Something that a lot of people experience at one point in their life. It's important for others to know how people feel, but sometimes it can comfort those struggling to hear something that they relate to, that they understand.

"I write romances that I would want, based on people who have been nice to me in the past. Once upon a time, there was this boy. He meant a lot to me, but he abandoned me and never spoke to me again. When I write about love and all the romances, I think about him, just how much I loved him, and just how much I hurt after him.

"The fiction is just my personal choice. I love reading YA fiction, and it's really fun to world and character build. I pull ideas from my favorite books, and intertwine and twist them until they become something new, something for me. Something I can write about.

"All it takes it just one spark, and I can write for a long time. It's hard to keep that flame alive, but if you nurture it, an entire book can come out from the flames. And if it does die, a better version can come from the ashes.

"Writing can sometimes seem like an escape, but also as a way to communicate and reach others who are feeling, living, dreaming just like me."

I smile wryly.

“My writing? Short form. Six words to about two hundred. Mostly. Sometimes more.”

He grins, flush with disbelief. I’m dazzled by the green eyes.

”For serious?”

I arch an eyebrow, pull a corner of my mouth up, and half-shrug. Maybe too many tattoos?

“Sometimes.”

“Doesn’t seem that hard. Can‘t ChatGPT do it?”

His once intoxicating cologne now cloys at my throat.

“Got honorable mention in a online contest. A human won,“ I respond, hoping to conceal my jealousy. “I like my stories to provoke thought and creativity. I ask about control and self-determination. I ponder a future where humanity is gone, replaced by self-aware androids.”

”In six words.” That he used the incredulous indicative instead of an innocent interrogative burns my ass raw. I notice wrinkles as he smirks.

“Yes.”

“Are you being like this because you wanna show me you write like you talk?”

“No.”

“Can you do it?”

“Can I do what?”

“Can you come up with a six word story. Now. About our date.”

I twist up my smile, summoning my meanest muse. Well, he wants proof.

“Less is more. Doubt? Disinterest? Done.”

I stand, push my chair in, and leave without looking at him.

I hesitate

I take a shaky breath as he waits

Papers of answers fill my mind as I contemplate

"My writing is an impulse"

The words bring up the speed of my pulse

I look up, expecting him to look repulsed

Instead he tilts his head for me to finish

I continue my deliverance

"My writing is a resistance

To my own regrets

To the world

To my own mind

My writing is a hive for the words I could never say to my own spite

Because all the words I could never say are the beginning ideas for what I will write"

"Well, my writing is probably too dramatic. Sometimes inspired by ADHD-fueled research sessions where I get 3 hours into picking apart theology, history, or some subset of nerd culture. I once wrote an entire DND campaign based on lore around Merlin and 'night mares.' My favorite piece was a research paper about 'little vittles' where pilots flew candy to Berlin after WWII. When a piece is finally written, I pick through it until it's intelligible and clearly written. I put in way too much work and my writing usually ends up being some sort of rant, but I enjoy it!"

I've only known you for a week.

But I loved you already.

You were to be the baby of all my babies.

I was meant to carry you for the next 8 months and get to know you better. I was meant to hold you in sweet motherhood's embrace: to stare in wonder at your sweet face on the day of your birth. You were going to have so many friends. Your brother and sisters were going to love you beyond measure. You were to be our little one. I couldn't wait to carry you alongside your growing cousin, and I was so thrilled to surprise your auntie by telling her I was carrying her babies' Birthday buddy.

I felt so confident of the life you would live.

I spent hours searching for your name, but none seemed to be just right. Maybe a part of me knew then that I would never hold you. You see, sweet baby, I have lost you already. And I miss you so much. I miss the dreams I dared to dream for you. I miss all you would have been... All you could have been.

This morning, I got up, and I knew you were gone. I called the doctor and scheduled an appointment, hoping I'd been mistaken somehow. This morning your sister, who we'd not told about you, prayed for you. She prayed for her little baby brother. She thanked God for you. I am so sorry you won't get to meet her here. I wish there were some way to change it all... To give you that life I'd hoped, but alas, sweet baby, I cannot decide these things.

I know that Jesus is holding you now, and you're happy. I am so glad you are with him there.

But oh, my sweet baby with wings, I miss you already.

What does my gut tell me? I asked myself. Always have to go with my gut.

Prebiotics rule my diet. They feed my gut bacteria their delicious and nutritious fiber. This re-equilibrates the ratio of good-to-bad bacteria in my intestines. It behooves me to keep the ratio lopsided toward the good ones, lest I regret what my gut tells me.

First things first--to know one is to be one.

PART ONE: THE SCIENCE

There are 100 trillion bacteria in my gut microbiome. We humans evolved with bacteria--a symbiotic relationship in which the whole was better than the addition of the parts. There are 86 billion neurons in my brain, the same as is estimated for the number of stars in the Milky Way.

Between one and two billion years ago, we evolved batteries to run our bodies. They generate our energy and without them we'd only be spineless, amorphous sludge that the sea foam washes up on the shore.

These battery/dynamos are our mitochondria, which originated from cellular capture of bacteria, engulfed presumedly for lunch, but which escaped into our cells' cytoplasm. Somehow, they eroded through the food storage vesicles into which they were initially engulfed. As such, we are hybrid creatures with foreign genetic instruction sets. Our bodies can talk with bacteria; they talk back, too. We should listen.

Our self-awareness as sentient beings comes--not from the number of neurons in our big, evolved brains--but due to the interconnectedness among them. While there are as many neurons in our brains as there are stars in the Milky Way, there are as many possible interconnections among them as there are particles in the universe.

So in counting the 100 trillion bacteria in my gut, I can only imagine the number of possible connections among them. I wonder: what is the magic number of interconnections from which sentience arises--self-awareness, feelings, and the pursuit of well-being?

I submit there are enough in my small intestines to represent a whole quorum; I could miss out on some great dialogue and sage advice were I to be deaf to their consultations or, worse, refuse to listen.

But I choose to listen. They advise wisely.

PART TWO: FIRST IMPRESSION

She seemed too good to be true. We met at Barnes & Noble in the philosophy section, which in itself was a good sign. One conversation later on Camus and our first date was set. We took brunch at a vegan diner, which wasn't as good a sign for me as the philosophy section, but, I mean, look at her!

Dark, flowing hair with deep blue eyes, and a subtly dark complexion that hinted of mixed race somewhere down the line. Sexy in the way she tossed her head--in that oh-so-feminine way.

She laughed at all my jokes. Even got them. Light conversation revealed she had gotten a tattoo with her female lover at the time, which excited me, but I don't know why. Also, I saw no tattoo, even though she was wearing a sleeveless dress. Must have been a discrete location, which also excited me.

She was a screenwriter of some repute, which meant that I, a freelance copywriter, was trading up. She earned her living with talent and dedication. From the way she talked about herself, she owed no one anything. She was evidently a strong woman. In fact, I think I saw a small pistol in her purse that had fallen open where it sat at her feet. Skinny ankles. I was a sucker for skinny ankles. Not so much small pistols, but the ankles trumped that.

She was cool, confident, and self-actuated. She seemed to be as intrigued by me, as well.

PART THREE: THE CONVERSATION

My gut instinct, though, was that she really was too good to be true. I listened to my gut.

Beware! I see an endless life of misery with her.

How do you know? I ask my gut.

Look, you will always be an also-ran in her life--to her hotsy-totsy Hollywood friends, to her secret lovers--male and female, to her strength and to her convictions. I hope you vote Republican.

Depends on the candidate, I say.

And you see that little lady pistol she's got? Do you know she's used it before? Yes, and on better people than you.

I beg your pardon.

Yep, you're gonna be miserable. You're gonna hate her more than she's gonna hate you, which is hard to imagine. And what are you gonna get for it? A little lady bullet right to your big, manly, evolved brain, that's what!

How do you know all this? I ask.

I'm a hundred trillion guys in your gut. That's 1 x 10 to the fourteenth, if you're counting. I only need 1 x 10 to the tenth to cogito-ergo-sum. And we're all talking to each other in here. How many orders of magnitude do you think I need for telepathy? Or even clairvoyance? I have orders of magnitude to spare, my dear host. That's how.

Oh, I thought. Then, I guess I should go with my gut, then.

Good call.

But I'm still a little confused. I mean, you're actually seeing into the future.

1 x 10 to the fourteenth.

Yea, yea, I get that, I assure my gut. What I want to know is while you seem to know way beyond into my future, you seem to know hers, too.

She's got a gut, too, y'know. Do you think I'm talking with just you?

Oh, I see. Well, I understand how getting their point of view can be very informative.

Very. By the way, do you think you might try to score with her anyway?

Sure, I told my gut. Why not? One night stand, then it's over. What's the harm in that?

You should know what she thinks of you, first. You're lucky she hasn't shot you yet.

I went with my gut. Paid the bill, walked her out of the diner, then ran like hell. But not as fast as she did.

How could you be the best part of me and I be the worst of you?

Unbalanced we waiver.

Belief's that together we make the best love flavor.

When the truth is; I live off your breaths; I suck air out of you.

A parasite leeching on, struggling to survive clawing at your skin for life.

Without you I'd be forever dangling in the after-life.

How could you be the best part of me and I be the worst of you?

How do we survive this?

To let me go means I'd shrivel up and die.

And if I thought it any different I'd be remiss.

To stay though, means you wilt away, the truth you can't defy.

And I love you too much to stay and watch.

Do we toss ourselves into the deepest abyss?

Or hold onto our time like some kind of stopwatch?

Somehow i can't see the end in my minds eye.

I wish we could forever stay in this deep kiss.

Our love now tastes like doomsday.

How do we balance this unwavering balance we've become, who do we sacrifrice?

Here is our judgement day.

The selfish parts of us question our ending.

But there has been enough pretending.

I stand in defensive, by heart transcending.

All this feels repressive, oh so mind-bending.

With knife in my hand I see no longer that we are one.

No longer is our end, something we can out run.

And I'm left crying for my loved one.

On opposites sides we play

And I know our end sounds like a cliche.

But I'm reminded that I'm nothing but a parasite.

We believed we could make it work how wrong we were in hindsight.

Awakened by the only the dazzling moonlight.

Your love the only poem I know to recite.

All those times you promised to make things right if only, I just sat tight.

But, I leeched onto your soul.

And it was all beyond control.

I clung to you for life, you were my watering hole.

And now I've sucked it all out.

Your sunken in eyes, the scattered feather of hair left behind is proof of the drought.

I know I'm killing you.

I used to believe it was all in my point of view.

And now you are so used to my poison that you don't taste it.

You were always a half-wit.

you don't feel your impending doom.

I just don't know how to love.

I wore the costume.

Pretended that I could play the part of lover, the doctor of this strange love.

But some things can't be hidden.

the forbidden things always, in plain sight.

Our love is war-ridden.

No one will ever comprehend our plight.

So now I'll confess that we were on opposite sides.

And it's hurts the most because I only ever wanted to stand by your side and call myself your bride.

We're at war.

You just don't know it yet.

And now it's your turn to take the floor.

You are just blind to the threat.

Deaf to the explosions.

How we've both toyed with each other's emotions.

Were enemies.

The fault is both our own no one could count the penalties.

This symbiotic love.

We've both been neglectful of.

We both love too much to confess who goes.

But in the end perhaps we will meet under the willows.

So in defense I stand with my switch-blade.

My actions I've betrayed.

Should I run you through?

How that would change your empathic world view.

Should I hold onto your soul through the decay?

Or should I slit my own wrists and deem you free as you watch me fade away?

You said life without me would equal death but how do I stay with your withered soul?

I admit that I have no self-control.

I now see the end, I watch as my own crimson soul pools at me feet.

In that instance I know I've set you free hasn't it all been bittersweet?

I had heard that journaling could help you process and understand your feelings so I started doing it a couple years ago. It does help. It might take some time to notice the effects, but it actually works. Lately, I’ve been trying this prompted journaling series called, “Envisioning Your Perfect Self.” I wasn’t sure how to begin, but once I started writing I just kept going. Different things that I wanted to change about myself kept popping into my head.

When I finished the last journal entry of that series, I had sculpted a full image of my perfect self. This version of me had none of the flaws I saw within myself, and all of the strengths I hoped to see within myself. After typing the final words, I hit “save” on the document that I knew I would never let anyone else read, and went to sleep.

My nose woke up before I did, then it aroused my stomach, which growled enough to awake the rest of my body. The appetizing aroma of eggs and bacon had tip-toed its way into my bedroom. My first thought was that my neighbors must be cooking breakfast and the scent had traveled through the vent. But the smell was too strong to be coming from a different apartment. I lived alone, which could only mean that Bobby Flay had broken in—and brought his own ingredients.

I got out of bed and walked down the short hallway to the living area and looked into the kitchen. I did a double take at what I saw, then realized I must have been dreaming. Standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes, was…well, me. Physically, this person was a clone of me. He had the same red, wavy hair, blue eyes, and lean build. Something about him seemed different, though. There was sureness in his demeanor, confidence in every action. Finally, he sensed my presence, turned off the water, looked over at me, and smiled.

“Hey, look who it is,” he said. “Quiche?”

I rolled my eyes and cursed under my breath.

“I’m having a dream about myself making quiche? I gotta stop watching Adventure Time so late.”

The other me dried his hands and then draped the folded towel over his shoulder.

“Nope,” he said with a friendly shake of his head. “Not a dream, Max.”

He then turned to open the oven.

“Don’t say my name, that sounds super weird. But how is this not a dream?” I replied as he reached into the oven. “I’m staring at a clone of me that knows how to make—a perfect quiche. Holy shit.“

My point had been derailed by the sight of other me holding a dish containing the most delectable looking quiche I had ever seen.

The copy of me laughed, but not awkwardly like I would have.

“I thought you might be a little confused. That’s why I made food. I know you can put up with just about anything if there’s a free meal involved. I’ll explain everything.”

He set the quiche down on the counter and sliced it into quarters. He transferred one of the slices to a plate that had been set out earlier.

“How did you even make this?” I asked while he set the plate on the dining table. “All I have in my apartment is cereal and pasta, and I don’t think there’s such a thing as honey nut scooter angel hair quiche.”

We both sat down at the table.

“I bought the ingredients. Everything is fresh and locally grown, of course. None of the cheap, processed stuff you usually chance just to save a couple bucks.”

I realized I was judging him for putting in effort on something while I chewed the first bite.

“God damn, this is good. You’re definitely not a clone of me.”

I thought I noticed a flash of discomfort on other Max’s face, but it faded in an instant.

“You’re right, I'm not a clone of you. I’m something…more,” his voice had lost a little bit of its confidence. A trimming of guilt could be detected.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, I’m the perfect you.” He shrugged, as if he could think of no better way to say it.

I laughed.

“A perfect me? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s true. You write, therefore I am.”

I looked at him skeptically. I had a suspicion of what he might have meant by that, but the rational side of my brain would not allow it.

“You mean like my journal things?” I ventured.

He spread out his arms.

“Here I am, the person you’ve always wished you were.”

I shook my head in doubt.

“The perfect me, huh? Prove it.”

He inhaled sharply and paused. I could sense him digging in heels in resistance to the challenge.

“I’m just you, except without the things you hate.”

“Tell me,” I demanded.

“Well, I don’t stutter.”

“I like my stutter,” I argued, appalled at the implication.

Perfect Max shrugged apologetically.

“You know what you wrote in those journals,” he said calmly.

“What else?”

“I can see the good inside of me.”

I waited silently, staring, my leg bouncing nervously.

He continued:

“I’m there for others when they need me, I’m capable of giving and receiving love, I’m—“ He cut himself off.

I could tell he really didn’t want to see me hurt. The perfect me cared about me.

“Say it,” I ordered.

He sighed.

“I’m happy,” he averted his eyes at first, then they darted back to assess the damage.

I blinked.

“I’m happy,” I pronounced with a questionable confidence.

Perfect Max didn’t fall for my bluff. He stared at me dubiously, forcing me to look at my cards.

“Sometimes,” I retreated, but not far enough apparently. “I might be someday. You’re gonna help me get there, right? That’s why you’re here?”

He looked at me with sorrowful, sympathetic eyes. Then he rose from his chair, walked towards me, and placed a gentle hand on my shoulder.

“I’m afraid it’s easier this way,” he said as he passed into the kitchen behind me. “I do hope you’ve enjoyed the quiche, though.”

I looked down at the small sliver of quiche that remained on my plate. Fear crept into my mind as I gathered his meaning.

“Wait!” I pleaded, turning around in my chair. “I wasn’t done yet. I could have done more, I could have made it better!” Panic shook every word.

He looked at me, perplexed.

“Could have made what better?”

I stared at him with blank eyes as I felt the poison taking effect, and I accepted my fate.

“You.”

The word barely escaped my mouth, along with my final breath.