Go back to Fiction Works
Enough to Be Human
Originally written on December 7, 2024



Copper, rainbows, silhouettes dancing behind me. I am unable to become fully enveloped in a feeling, and I think that is a natural sensation. The world is always imagining, and I am always in a state of thankfulness, always finding the means to deliver to the day my mightiest triumph.
I walked down the lane, sniping a peep onto newspapers that had little much with which to begin, yet they offered at the very least the air of mystery often occupying the daily mornings. It was like a sunshine embracing a tadpole in the waters, where just a little bit gave the impression of a great magnificence of the moment in such precise small directed blessings.
Either way, what mattered the most was that I was already on my way to my meeting, and here is my world, so aptly inquired of day in and day out.
I sat down later at a restaurant, occupying the second chair that one most closely encountered upon entering and that is situated to the leftmost corner where the window offered insight into the clouds and the streets casting shadows across from the street lamps. 
I was quickly arranged with a soup dish as an appetizer, but this was not a formal dinner. And my expressions of delight were no more formal or informal than the clothes that I had on, which spoke of both a need for extra preparation and a need to be less prepared, in that I wore the brightest suit that I could find, while retaining the rest of the formal attire. And by "brightest," it was perhaps too bright that, if seen outside the gates of the city, it would be thought of as a man straight from an angel's portal.
The man who was expected to meet me arrived, and I supposed that he wore a shabby enough suit for my tastes. Any more formal, and it would be a danger to society, due to the concern of having involved myself with such a stiffly dressed ghoul of a man. However, since that was the case, repose was natural.
I thought of him as a saintly figure by the way that he spoke of leaves and tea, as if he was being possessed by the angels themselves in his tedious, but sermon-like appraisal of the restaurant's above-average beverage. It was said there and then that a tea was like a "buttery dish," according to him at least, and if there were any more folk like him, I might have tossed myself from this chair into the streets below. Fortunately, my affairs, by so happening to intersect with his, contained this man and prevented his behavior from leaking out elsewhere. The lack of manners made him seem a bit daft and porous.
Considering this, it was only welcome that this moment would come, that I might prevent any action or decision from being made within the man's influence and effect. If he ever was to overextend his bounds, I would gladly have obstructed him with the key gifts of inoculating speech—this way, he would be repaired and fended from the terrors of his own bile in the occasion that he proved restless in response to his containment.
With that said, it was important to prepare a gift in the form of words of wisdom, so by offering small opportunities for the man to re-engage, I equipped him with social confidence, something that I supposed he lacked. If he was ever willing, I would fetch him as many opportunities as possible for the development of his wit, of which he was clearly lacking. That he was even demanding by himself made him hard to collaborate with. This was then my final concern of him, at least for the time being.
After parting ways with the man, I went up to a small door, not as large as those in the large houses, but large enough to keep my form within, that I might enter in with a pleased smile, because a blockage would have confirmed that I was already being prevented from this town through its parts. But that was a mere saying, not anything with which I should worry himself.
Within, toys were scattered amok like flies as soon as they were sprayed with the necessary repellents, but the toys were not deranged. They were craftily placed at positions that would not have been reached mistakenly, so it was clear that a mastermind was at work. No more older than a master, but not more younger than a baby, a child appeared into the room, hurrying but not having an obvious direct, at least with regard to me. It seemed that the child, unlike the mother who was speaking with me so casually, had little to do with the man towering above him. I would have helped him organize his toys or dissect the mastery in their arrangement if he let me, but such an opportunity would never arrive in such a limited environment. So I resigned to responding to the mother, who was a family friend. If the boy grew up, then he expected to ask the mother about him every so often once the boy was out of the house and living distantly. It would be a tough time for any grown child out there, even now, and as time passed, the world became more challenging little by little. But saying that did not good to the boy, so he left the boy to his current devices, in such limitations did I find an intellect that did not merely identify and process but found the means whereby elements formed their whole. It was here that he could discover the boy's power—that in such minute reflections could be found great things, not easily explainable, but marvelously decisive in bringing about the formation of any individual person, in this great world.
When I was finally away, I hurried home and turned my back against the chair, against which I rested long, hoping that the moment would last perpetually. But the night time stalked me like a hawk, preventing me from fully embracing the moment simply, because sleepiness broke out and whipped me, scratching my esculent neck voraciously that it might produce within me a night dream and a dreary slumber, both of us perfectly tied to the ground or to whatever mattress or chair was colliding. I knew well that I was unprepared for the consequences, only prepared to fix up after it was all over.
Demands beat like a drum, concocting the morning sky perfectly like a dinner artist who specialized in painting the messy violent crime scene of 6- to 8-man family dinners. The concatenated moments merely abruptly woke up the sleepy man. That was me, and I was bursting at the seams, exploding into an array of workload and decisionally separated attention spans. I knew well that the moment shone a highlight upon immediate needs, such as food and water, and I was quickly to satisfy them, pouring water, eating rice, consuming enough to keep me delighted for the morning, enough for me to engage in a bath and a shower, that I might equip my body with the required clothes, in the arms of which I went straight outside, thereupon, as if with a salute, I marched forward down the road and entered a large building, though cottage-like in my view due to its already strong familiarity. If I were to destroy it, it would feel as small as burning a match, given how unified I was to my workplace.
I went home already by the time I was done, averaging my thoughts before ended in contextual fulfillment through my sheer presence and gaze at the two dogs passing by me. Such affairs returned me to the contextual away from the abstract and the notion of averages, frameworks, and statistics.
I let myself fall to bed as fast as I could, as if I was in a war with the mattress myself. My physical body cut through the air still trapped between it and the bed that it might secure its complete synthesis and become smoothened into eternal combination.
In sleeping, I resolved bodily aches, and in waking up, I re-winded the clock.
The morning was palatable, freshly cooked, definitely reducible into key moments, but I was not prepared to have finish just because I was satisfied. I found ways to slow down the time—watching the clock ticking away, slapping the stair railings to see them vibrate across the entirety, and removing my clothes to stare at my body and all the memories that emerged therefrom.
Even after all of that, I could detect that the time was marching without me. I removed myself from the moment and hurried into a sensation, one that transitioned me to work.
But work was fleeting, and so was its hold on me.
I soon was able to do other things, such as asking my friend what they were going to do later.
As soon as an answer arrived, I dashed out the door to my friend, re-attaching us two. 
The longest days were had when one was truly having fun, and I could sense it. At the beginning of the door opening, I saw the little leaves of the plastic plant above me, and there were many others. But since I was quickly distracted, I had turned to the right to see a woman entering at the same time as I was, so I sped up my steps, closing my mind's eye to be seated. Once that was done, I allowed the moment to submerge me in applause, further taking me down into the depths of its grasp, like a bat's maintained posture throughout the night.
At the moment my first hand touched the table. It was not a mere brush of the fingertips this time. It was an enveloping warmth that soaked and brought two—table and hand—together in a loving hug, one that broke through barriers and made the atmosphere fully visceral, because I was letting the moment grip me, preventing it from running away or wandering off. I knew well that such "long days" of the moment, wherein one was truly having fun—which, in this instance, was with my friend—were priceless.
I stopped the hand-table hug, and I stared at the person in front of me. A woman, with a smile attached to her lips and a glorious set of eyes that knew right from wrong, watched my eyes and my hand raise to her. I shook her hand, and she was glad to smile in return. It was her duty almost to have been so welcoming, but I did not think that was necessary. I thought that having enough time to have a friend in regular meeting was more than sufficient, like a hand-me-down.
"What was it like?" I said. My words formulated themselves, and I had no authority.
The woman, my friend, whose name was Anna, said, "Let's just say that it was fun. There was a drab perfect-fit for me, and I was scared to let them see me see it. I got it removed once they listened to me. But I feel that it might have been because I was, you know, bothering them or something... I don't know."
"Right," I said sarcastically. "because people think in terms of annoyance." I then said genuinely: "You must realize that they probably just wanted to sell, and that's all. No one thinks much of anything or anyone, and even if it was you who did the annoying thing to get them, who cares? Annoyance is subjective. Too much assertiveness, no one likes you. Too little? Well, you know how you went down."
"Ha, I'm just not letting myself say it, I guess. I'm too used to having others do it for me, and I know that sounds privileged. But all things I do sound privileged, so I guess that's a given."
Wanting to speak up to challenge her frame of thinking, I released my tension by wiggling my toes inside my cramped shoes.
"Yeah, it's a given that you're still here and alive," I said. "Come on, An, let's be honest. You're doing your best. As long as you maintain it, you can get... rid... of whatever concern you have. But for now, conduct yourself like there's something bothering you, and I know there is. So let it encourage you... Take you by the hand and whip you up so that you can carry yourself by your bootstraps, because that's how life works apparently... I'm joking, but you get the point."
Anne frowned. "Okay? 'Cause I don't know if it's really that way, you know? Do they actually think like that? Or is it just me?"
I touched my face, feeling a little stressed and annoyed. "I don't think you need to care about that at all, but the fact that you're asking says a lot..."
"Real?"
I calmed myself down to get the point across, because I was annoyed about how excess and misdirected, I felt, her concerns over this matter was. "In a good way."
"Oh-ok." Anne had a simple polite smile that she was making, not necessarily to him, but in a functional way that reflected her inability to be totally resigned with the matter and, yet, her recognition of the need to get a conclusion, even if it was not totally fulfilled, at least in her perspective. She had a lot with which to work.
"But I get it... Okay. I know what it feels like. Okay. I don't. But I admit that I can see why it can be challenging. But I kind of wish you saw what I meant. I saw...what basically is like a giant afraid of a mouse. I know that makes you look weak, but what I mean to say is that you're stronger than you know... So..." After saying that, I was not sure if I was a horrible person or a horrible person. Despite my confidence, I really was afraid of making someone uncomfortable, and I used confidence and directness as a means of connecting with someone, because most people that I knew just left as soon as I tried to hide my frustration and keep it in with a polite smile. This was why I felt frustrated in situations like Anne's, because she reminded me of many previous moments in which I was too scared and too focused on the external insomuch that I wasted so much time worrying over nothing. It was not that my younger self was not valid or that Anne was not valid. It was more so that I believed that if someone really shook me to realizing that I was preoccupied with things that barely mattered, then maybe I would come to the realization sooner instead of going through so much just to realize too late. Or maybe I was being pushy and mean. I was probably a horrible person by this point, or maybe I always was. I never truly knew, but even within my head, it was not as if I wanted to treat people horribly. It was more so that I felt that it was good to be honest, even if it meant appearing or being prescriptive at times because it allowed for greater opportunities for a mutually communicative relationship. At least that was what I learned over the years, because I would rather have such a relationship of honesty than one with fake smiles and people never truly arriving at a synthesis of words and opened hearts. Or maybe I was wrong in this matter and wrong for having existed at all.
"I'm sorry," he interjected.
Anna stared at him. "Okay..." It was simple, faint, almost perfunctory.
It bothered him, but if he apologized any more, it would go against his beliefs of being direct and honest while maintaining self-respect. Saying sorry did not mean that she could start using his vulnerability against him, and he knew that could happen, not that he did not trust her. It was more so that he recognized that no one would ever arrive at that point where it made total sense, so in such an ambiguous world, any attempt at defining things would come with the potential of being demanding and perhaps controlling and given to exploitation.
In fact, he thought that apologizing was a mistake in the first place. It would have been better to transition to acknowledging where he went wrong and to revising what he said previously, but with added validation of her feelings.
In the end, he made too many mistakes, maybe enough to be human, and hopefully not enough to be unrecoverable.
He tried to continue several times, but he could not fetch a thought. Everything came black and in the form of "I don't know."
So he let her take over the talking completely and have the discussion be established in new topics.
It was a failure on his part, and he knew that any more discussion came with the context that he failed to have given her the words that she needed to hear.
He had failed.
He could not hear her anymore. It was ringing in his mind.
He woke up in a cold sweat, twenty days later. Something about that moment hurt him, and he did not talk to her anymore, even when she was willing to talk and meet again. Something about that moment felt so vulnerable and hideous, as if he saw the most disgusting creature in the planet.
He tried to forget it, but he did not know how. At least, he was efficient, in his daily activities, at work, and in every other meeting he attended. 
But he was afraid of Anna, because she reminded him of his failures. The thing was that it did not start with her, but in a way, she became "infected" with all of his bad memories. And now that she was tainted, she became an extension of all of those past moments of visceral vulnerability, the kind that made him hyperventilate even in the morning, afternoon, and late at night. It was the kind of thing that left him mind screaming.
He woke up again.
He saw a face in front of him—he saw the depths of hell and monsters coming toward him.
He roared, his heart leaping out of his chest.
He tried his best.
He tried.
He could not think.
He could not breathe.
He breathed again—the nightmares returned.
He stopped himself from breathing, and the nightmares paused in their movements.
He transitioned into morning coffee and ate a chunky breakfast. Something was not right, but it was never perfect. He tried his best to maintain himself, but he knew that he was limited. 
He met Anna, and everything went smoothly.
He was done.
He was finally finished.
He slept.
He woke up and saw nothing. But he did see himself and remembered everything.
But he was calmer now. It had been four months since his meeting with Anna.