I’m sitting here in the kitchen, at this late hour of the night, half-listening to the things my parents are talking about in the other room as they watch football.

I sit here and find myself thinking thoughts that feel difficult to convey in the written word.

I notice that I’ve caught a chill. They keep it really cold in here. I’ll throw on a hoodie.

This is what happens when I take my headphones off: I get to tune in to how the other half lives, the other half being my parents. I pick up on the fact that they are two living and breathing people who have to occupy the negative spaces in life just like I do.

I’ve started to imagine myself as a future prisoner. Surely there’s going to be something I do in the future that will see me in a prison. I’m thinking of Dostoevsky and how he was straight up sent to jail for participating in socialist discussions about the state of the society he lived in. That’s something I would do. But the society I’m living in seems to be asking me for even more drastic action. But what are they asking me to do? Certainly not “become a doctor.” That’s not even close to being on my mind anymore. All I need to do is pass this upcoming month of primary care, then study for the stupid-ass exams they’re making me take, then jump through whatever remaining hoops there are.

hoop hoop hoop In the other room, my mom snaps at my dad (physically snaps) to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep in his chair. Now she’s clapping. Reading numbers off the screen. Narrating the game for him. He’s clearly zonked. Coming in and out of consciousness. Sleeping with his eyes open. It’s 11 PM.

“Hey,” he says, sternly, after the last snap.

“Goddamn son of a bitch,” he says. Not sure what would’ve happened for him to say that.

They start cheering.

“I told you it wasn’t over,” my mom says.

Did they get a touchdown or something?

“It always has to come down to this,” my dad says.

I guess that’s what they meant. It came down to this one touchdown, I guess. It’s a touchdown.

There’s some question about the play and whether it really was a touchdown.

“Oh my god,” dad says.

They’re both pretty excited. I’m sure it’s a big surge of dopamine. This is good for me, because now they’ll be in a decent mood when they eventually come out and go to bed.

“I hope they call it. Interception,” she says vaguely, with a warning tone.

“My ears are ringing,” she says. “I wonder why.”

Dad laughs.

“No, they’re actually ringing right now.”

Dad burps. He says nothing.

I suppose she’s implying that it’s because he was just shouting.

“No fucking way,” she says. “He just won the game for the Rams.”

“Well—right—” dad says.

It’s 11:11 PM. Make a wish. I wish things would change. This is the year to make it happen.

I don’t have a family that needs my support. No wife and no kids. No plans to get either of those things. Financial stability is closer than it seems.

Mom says she’s going to bed.

Dad says he’s gonna see what they have to say. They being sportscenter, presumably.

She slinks out of the living room and toward the kitchen.

“They won,” she says.

“It’s late,” I say.

“I know. I can’t wait to go to bed,” she says. “See you in the morning, sweet dreams, love you.”

“Love you too, sweet dreams.”

These are the things I’m going to remember. These are the moments that define our relationship. This is what our relationship is. There’s more to it, but at the end of the day (which it is now), this is what our relationship is.

MOVE AT THE RIGHT SPEED AT THE RIGHT TIME! ASK YOURSELF: WHAT SPEED AM I SUPPOSED TO BE AT RIGHT NOW? IF IT’S FASTER THAN YOU’RE GOING, BITCH, GET UP AND MOVE! IF IT’S SLOWER, CELEBRATE AND REALIZE THAT YOU CAN TAKE A LITTLE BREAK! Follow the spark. Embrace stillness when it asks to be felt.

Move as fast as you can. Slow as you can. Slow down. Speed up. Choose your tempo.

Choose your tempo.

Choose your tempo. I think that’s the mantra. I think that’s it. It has to do with the key in my hand. The key is very much part of it. I’m following the sparks. It feels so good. Forcing nothing.

Choose your tempo. I was going too slow.

“Yep,” dad says to no one in particular.

He must have hallucinated a snap. Hypnagogic hallucination. And now it’s time for him to meander to bed. I think. He’s doing some little vocalizations.

“All right,” he says.

Did mom just call him or something?

“Yep,” he says.

Are they talking on the phone?

Too slow. A glitch in the matrix.

Too slow. Choose your tempo. Back to one.

My personal life is going to become faster. Deleted tiktok and instagram. We’re moving faster toward what I want. I’m reducing the distractions. The distractions are just there to distract me.

Vanity is a distraction. No more staring in the mirror wondering if I’m hot, if the strangers I encounter in society will find me appealing. That’s a distraction. Leave it. Go away, you.

path You don’t need to see the full path to know you’re walking the right way. That’s the whole point of paths. They’re paths. You trust that there’s something good waiting for you on the other side. But no, that’s not even what this is. This is not a path. This is life. Life is not a path. Life is life. I’m not on a path. The road rolls out behind me and stuff like that.

Too slow. The thought wasn’t good enough. Back to one. Get the damn key tattoo, brother. You need it as a reminder.

Too slow. Switch to something else.

I need to stop editing. The editing process needs to be over soon.

I owe no one polish. I do owe people resonance. Because if writing is what I want to do, the only point in writing, EVER, is resonance. That’s the one point of it. Good thing resonance is such a broad term. There’s many things you can do to resonate. It doesn’t box you in.

Like driving in a car and throwing things out the window. Releasing things into the wind. Knowing that the wind is time, and everything I put out gets swallowed by the wind regardless. Better I put some good stuff in there so it’ll be something good that hits somebody in the face. Oh wow.

Too slow. Move on. Next thing. What’s the next thing?

the point The point isn’t attention. Remember that. The point is… I don’t know what the point is. We’ll have to wait and see what the point is. Who knows.

Next thing. Too slow. Choose your tempo. Keep it moving. What you gonna do? Mic up. i love myself.