Desire

All frames returned to reality. Xing looked around, again awake, outside history and something. While he woke up, he observed a tiny red flower, a common poppy. Not a sophisticated flower, just plain red, full of dots. It was a fully grown poppy, somehow growing directly from the gravel to a nearby patch of grass around the block. Xing looked at it, picked it, and looked a little harder. He took a photo of the poppy and asked the AI model to identify it. The AI model confirmed it was a common poppy. A common poppy, not an opium poppy. Some sort of tranquilizer, later than a silent death.

Xing started to contemplate the flower; it withered in minutes. But then there was something sophisticated about the flower. He picked it and put it in a book. Later, he tried to make some passes and return to the office, but on the desk, the same book was there. So, common poppy, not the opium side, just plain common poppy. It won't be any good.

But then, Xing started to nod off at his desk, scrambling some words, where the poppy slips.

And then, he started to story, so story, looking at the beautiful flowers around. So, here I am, I'm... think. And I'm 28. A call center officer. What a pathetic life. Then, I remembered something. A pretty interesting story. From the past. It was like... And then he started nodding and muttering. And the words just came in close. Without any particular meaning, he started to tell about life, he started to tell about many things.

And then, our past, past, the sunlight goes. And Xing remembered that he had to go to the office today. His phone had been ringing for hours. But for some reason, he forgot. He forgot he should be working. He forgot he should be waiting for something.

And then, it was like, it's nonsense. He scrambles over his notebook. It's very nonsense, because everything I work for, I get almost nothing back. I feel like a slave. I work on the minimum wage. And that is my sister. She took everything. All of me. Nothing else than my pure life. At least, overall, just here. All day. Because never mind what I believe. I've already been fired. I'll start reading. Or writing a story. Yes. A trap. Or a masterpiece. I don't care. But I will send it. To someone. No matter who. Somewhere. Maybe my life will matter. A bit. For the man who will read my nonsense. But let's get some tip back. Over it. I don't know. It's kind of less. How much will it be less? To write a masterpiece book? I don't know. But apparently, I hope not too much. Minutes. Or maybe hours. What about writing straight? Asking back the worst. Or the best novel. Of each time? Guess I can probably be around. Ha ha. What nonsense. And yet. What can I do? No paycheck today. And as my phone rings. I believe I've already been fired. But what cares? Nothing to win. Nothing to lose. Just...

And then he remembered something. He wrote about this. He saw a small piece of paper, a list of things he wanted before he died. And one of the tries suggests that he will write the worst novel ever. Two hours straight. Of nonsense. What can be worse? Or better? He believes. Just. Anyway, Reality was something I never liked.

It's not something we can influence. Not what psychologists say. Or string. About reality. Actually, we can do little. Change our life little. The only gift. God gave us. Is that. We can die. A gift. Not a threat. Of course. We will lose those we love. Some. They'll be alone. But that day. I can choose. Go farther. Continue life. Or leave. Or die. That's my choice. At the moment. I know. I want to do just the basic. The supreme exit. Flying over the roof. Of a hotel. Or trying some bad. Drenching blood. I don't know. Enough drugs. We use. But lately. That option. Too viable. For such a huge event. Like my death. Anyway. I'll die. No matter the situation. But what I know. The way I die. Is my choice. And I'll handle it. But until then. I want to do something. Change something. Lately. This is just. Transcribing everything. From my memory. Making the book. Of everything I created. But I don't remember. Years. Since I started daydreaming. Much of this. Incoherent. Pieces of story. Randomly. Somewhere. Anywhere. Sometimes. They lead to nothing. Sometimes. To an end. But only for a new beginning. This. Tragedy of hyper-hope. I mean. You did like rap. But you always hope for better. Remember me. Of times. And then he remembered. Him. A battle of medication. Just a medication. Over his own. But going to the mouth. Nothing happened. He didn't do it. And then he recalls. Why am I still here? And then. Looking above. Posters from anime. His list of things. Random common pieces. Of nothing. But I believe. He said. Pieces of hope. No matter what. I always made it. Somewhere. Somehow. No matter how brief. Or how long. But eventually. Somewhere. I always found the song. And now. I feel. Somehow. Not so marvelous. When I didn't feel anything. The whole world. Numb. But now. I start again. To feel numb. Despite my medication. You did not just. I just feel that. And then. The ghost from the past. Like what is so? They all always hunt me. How allowed me. Make me feel. I'm done. And useless. What a tragedy. To always be the worst. But the others. Always complimented you. Somehow. I'm useless. Most likely jobless. And I feel. Life doesn't work. Living. Despite my optimism. Pretty strange. Sometimes. I feel things. Going to be better. But most days. Not like this. Though. Humans. Can devote to nonsense. And I'm a human. So I devote myself to this nonsense. All right then. What can I lose? I'll just write the worst novel. And send it. To the best professor."