It’s not her long, brown hair that falls down perfectly like a waterfall. If anything, that makes him feel like home; northern Virginia. (Why, yes, he usually says DC area when asked.)

Not that he has any in-depth understanding nor appreciation of the Danish capital, he couldn’t even name a single street in Copenhagen if he tried.

But she reminds him of the rush in his vein the very moment he landed in Copenhagen airport, the Kastrup. It was about 5 years ago, he had never been to Denmark, and he only had 25 minutes before his next connecting flight to Rome takes off.

“I swear to God, if this stupid delay makes me miss my flight to Rome, I’m suing the entire Copenhagen and their mommas.”

But it didn’t take long before he realized that he will, in fact, not miss his connecting flight to Rome. A flight that will take him to the girl he was in love with, and the first girl he’s ever given his heart to.

He could not wait to see her smiling face.

First love is a tricky thing, isn’t it? The feelings, the hurt, the don’t-know-what-to-do…

And then there’s the excitement, and the endless hopeful feeling, the feeling like everything is possible and the world is yours to take.

Last but not least, the way she said “Don’t worry babe, I know you don’t see it, but it couldn’t be more clear to me that you are exactly right where you belong in life.”

And the relentless guilt when he broke her heart. That relentless, nagging guilt that would go on to linger for years.

.

.

.

The girl with the long brown hair turned around to meet his eyes, she smiled.

“She does feel like Copenhagen.” He thought to himself, again.

.

.

.

Now he’s remembering the second time and the very last time he was in Copenhagen. He had just spent two weeks in Rome with his first love, there was tears, there was laughs, and there was all day hand-holding, every day.

However, the highlight of the trip was probably when she told him she loves him right before he hopped on his connecting flight back to Copenhagen, where he would spend a night before catching his final flight back to DC.

That one night in Copenhagen though.

He tried to think hard but he was pretty sure he had never felt like this before; the warm and fuzzy, the king-of-the-world feeling, the I haven’t achieved what I’ve set out to, but I’m pretty sure I’m on the right track new found confidence.

Also, she told him she loves him.

Sitting in a tiny hotel room in Copenhagen, he thought back to that one night where she snuck in under the cover in that queen bed just to stare into his eyes. And he wondered what has he done right to deserve a girl like that.

Was he sad to leave? Maybe. But he loved America, that hasn’t changed, and he’ll be glad to be back on the US soil in about 48 hours; soon he’ll be driving his old Jeep that he’s had since high school, he would drive down the same roads back to his northern Virginia home, and sleep in the same bed he had been sleeping in before this trip.

But things are different now. She told him she loves him. The prettiest girl in the world, can you believe it?

Is this what content feels like? Had I never felt contentment up until this point in life? He asked himself then, and he asks himself now again.

.

.

.

The girl with the long, brown hair sat down at a table next to his at this DC cafe, she caught his eyes once again, and smiled. Her sparkling blue eyes bring a smile to his green eyes.

And that’s when he knew.

Here comes love.

She reminds him of Copenhagen was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The earth started to shake and rip open under their feet, fire came out from the center of earth, smoke and ashes fill the air.

Funny how life changes.

Seemed like just moments ago, she was sitting in her hotel room at the Ritz-Carlton, Chicago. She had no clue how she got here, Chicago of all places. If it were up to her, she wouldn’t be crossing that Mason Dixon line.

Somehow, she knew a boy is going to walk in the room in exactly 7 minutes, and he’ll come smiling and reaching out for a kiss.

She’s more of a pull-me-in-for-a-forehead-kiss before a slow kiss kinda girl though.

She looked out of the window, nothing but cold concretes and suffocating city streets. “How am I here?” She was confused. All the sudden, she noticed her hands were tied behind her back, her feet were chained to the wall. Perhaps more disturbingly, she couldn’t remember who she is. She looked into the mirror across the room, all she saw was a girl in a mulberry silk night grown with a beat-up heart.

“I have to go.”

And just like that, the chains were broken, her hands untied simultaneously.

Beep.

She heard the door, and then the footsteps.

Came a mild-mannered man, six foot something with a pair of heart breaker blue eyes, he’s got that kind of vibe that everyone would describe as “the nicest guy ever”.

Soon as she saw him, she was overcome by rage, despair, and overwhelming darkness. “Hey babe.” He walked over with a perfect smile on his face.

She flinched.

Before she knew it, she busted out the door running. Everything started to blur; the Ritz-Carlton turned into a dark jungle, and then the dark jungle turned into a burning field.

Behind her was the blue-eyed man from the hotel room, his eyes now filled with hellfire, the perfect smile was there no more.

She’s lightning on her feet; she knew exactly what’s going on, but she also had no idea what is going on.

“Catherine.”

A voice calls out to her. Out of nowhere, a memory hit her on the heart like a hurricane; the first time that voice saying her name, and the way it filled her heart with golden lights.

“Catherine.”

A man in white t-shirt appeared. He had been running aimlessly in a field of fire screaming a name that he didn’t know whom it belongs to; but he couldn’t stop.

And the moment they met eyes; they both knew. They understood they were drawn to each other. Instantly, they were both hit by a tsunami of emotions; emotions that could only be described as warm, golden lights.

Ah, yes, their hearts have been right next to each other all this time, and the physical distance had just caught up.

Hellfire arrows started flying through from behind, she grabbed his hand and started to run.

The field of fire now turned into a lava, they were standing on the edge of earth, no escape.

She knew what she had to do.

She took one last look of the boy in white t-shirt, her mind made up.

“You won’t remember this; but you’ll remember I love you.”

She took a step into the lava, eyes locked on the hellfire eyes she was now facing. With each step, life slowly came back to earth. She now stood just a foot away from the man with hellfire eyes, his eyes turned back to blue, both of them disappeared into thin air.

4:45 am.

She just woke up from a crazy dream, but it’s already started fade. She lies still in her king bed, confused by the feelings dancing in her heart. She’s content in her singleness, but now she wonders how it would feel like to have someone next to her; someone whose heart is also right next to hers.

Somewhere down in Memphis, Tennessee. A boy with dark hair put on a white t-shirt and sat down in the front step of his house. Randomly, he thinks of this girl he met a few months ago. He knew nothing about this girl, yet, he felt like he already knew. What exactly did he know though? That, he still doesn’t know.

But she seemed like the kind of girl with a relentless love.

He hasn’t seen her for a week now, and he hasn’t spoken to her for way longer than that. But her smile stays with him, still.

“Catherine.” Her name rolls off his tongue. He thinks of that night when he had his arm around her as they sang along to Chicken Fried, the best country song ever, according to him.

You won’t remember this was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

In the year 1998, in a small one Whataburger town known by the name Dairy, population 1057, lived a man named Connor. Connor was a mean old cuss, that lived a life full of mistakes and regret. The town drunk, local pariah, with a face that could make a donkey haw, Connor was given a bad hand, and he played it even worse. Most folks meet a person like Connor at some point in their life and wonder briefly, “How could someone ever be happy living in such a way?” then that thought passes, and they go about their normal, presumably happy life. Connor however, had keep on living with Connor.

What the thousands of wondering passerbys and unfortunates unlucky enough to get caught in Connor’s wake for a longer period of time don’t ever see, is that folks like Connor usually end up alone, sitting in a chair staring at the world just marinating in all the sour juices the various pickles of their life have produced.

While these juices stew, the misery swirls into a kind of miasma. This is what is affectionately known as the “smell of death”.

Although upon reaping Connor’s crooked and shriveled soul. Death commented, “They should have called it what it was. The smell of Connor. Not Death.”

Backing up just one hot minute though, hours before Death came to reap the soul of Connor. Something miraculous happened. Connor inadvertantly stumbled upon the law of Balances.

On that day in 1998, in the one Whataburger Texas town known by the name of Dairy population 1057, Connor sat alone on his porch watching the cows roam over the pasture. As he silently mumbled to himself about this and that, two unlikely neurons connected in his brain.

And he realized in a sudden rush that every pattern on every dairy cow, even the number of all the cows on each side of the fence always balanced out. Figures rushed through Connor’s head. Images and concepts flashed through his mind, as he received, in full, the Law of Balances.

Tears of joy came to his eyes. Having nothing to offer the world before, he felt his only option was to kick and scream at the unfairness of it all. But now, now he would go down in history! He would be remembered by Scientists generations from now for Connor’s Law of Balances!

Connor then began plot and scheme of all the revenge that he would reign on the town of Dairy. All the girls that told him no, all the boys that told him he smelled funny, they would all face their glorious comeuppance.

Unfortunately for Connor, the reason why the Law of Balances would not be recorded into scientific record until 2054, is because unless you tell it to someone else within the first hour of realizing it, you will die. Because only one person knowing something, causes an imbalance. Funny thing the Law of Balances.

So in the middle of planning a scheme to get back at the postman for keeping the JC Penney magazines for himself, Connor died of a heart attack.

Death came and reaped his soul, and the town known by the name of Dairy, now had a population of 1056.

You Better Dig Too was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Listen closely to the sky
And it’ll show you how to dot life’s i’s.
And don’t be afraid if the girl decides to run
It’s half of the fun”

This is the 9th time this Josh Abbott Band song came on the radio today… Or is it the 99th time? Who could even tell anymore? Time is a social construct.

Foo Lindsay followed up that thought with a series of intense, aggressive, and powerful coughs.

The Lindsay family didn’t have much in life, but honor they were not short of; the same thing can be said about their neighbor, the Dodds. Two years after a drunken bet mixed with a double dog dare, the Lindsay named their new born son Foo, just like the Dodd’s one-year old daughter, Foo.

The Foos grew up and spent their whole life in the same small town, went to the same grade school and high school, where all their friends referred to them as Foo L and Foo D, respectively.

But all that changed the day they said I do to each other. It’s Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay now. The Foos now shared the same last name, too.

Foo L tries to sit up from his bed, but only manages to let out another series of mega coughs.

Foo’s sick, very sick.

He has been sick for a very long time.

He has been sick since the day his wife told him there is a whole-nother world outside of Texas, and she intends to see it all by herself. She took off her wedding band and left him in the dust.

“Will you come back home when you’re done seeing the world?” He texted her, one year later. No response.

Four years flew by, her momma came by to say she’s found herself a new man, and a brand new baby girl, all the way across the world, in Paris. He just nodded and said you know she’s always like a wild flower.

“And she will be free,
Like the leaves floating in the wind, and the stream.
She will not be bound, by anything that tries to drag her down.
Oh, and all that girl wants to be is loved.
And her heart is a river in my blood.”

This freaking Josh Abott Band song again. Foo rolls his eyes, finally manages to sit up, though not without coughing out a disturbing amount of blood. He smiles though, as he wipes off the blood on his lips. He’s thinking about her, and the way she would smile every time her eyes met his.

Foo knows he doesn’t have much time left on this earth. He’s always thought he would go out with a bang, fighting black bears in Alaska or killing terrorists wherever ’em terrorists at. Here he is watching his own life slips away in his sickbed.

He still loves her. And he’s hoping somewhere out in Paris, she is having the time of her life, and that she still hasn’t forgotten the way the Texas sun shines.

Secretly, Foo L couldn’t wait to go. He smiles, knowing his stone will read “The man who loves Foo D till his last breath.”

And that was his very last thought on this earth.

Five hours away, somewhere in south Texas, a 6"2', twenty-something Texas boy walked out of his door with a beer in his hand. It’s a beautiful day to do a whole lot of nothing, he thought to himself.

He chugged another beer, and this random thought came across his mind so intensely, he had to say it out loud, even though he’s alone.

“Man, whoever coined the term ‘lovesick fool’ has truly nailed it.”

And her heart is the center of it all was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Rather, I should ask, do you like to dance. And if so, what styles?

My text messaging protocol has become quite convoluted lately.

It is mildly astounding to me.

I don’t want to seem too formal and proper.

But I have this inexhaustible drive to be unique. You know, to have some kind of signatureishnness or other.

What I truly desire is that the people receiving these text messages, such as yourself Tara, to be able catch a small glimpse of the true me in these silly little words.

These, laughably chaotic little denizens of information transfer. Text messages. They are so powerful, and yet so elusive. One can spend minutes pondering the ramifications of an included punctuation mark. Should it be an exclamation mark? Oh no, I now sound too excited. But simple period is too droll.

What keeps tickling the back of my brain about text messages is their invasiveness. A single word. You could end an entire relationship with one. Or let someone know their Dad died. And these littles words spill onto the screens of our lives.

One can be minding their very reasonable business at work but a brief glance to our phone, and just like that! The entire emotional landscape of your day has changed, because the Ghost of Love Gone By sent you two letters, “hi”.

And immediately adrenaline and cortisol flood your system, you feel flushed and excited, stressed and panicked down to your gut. Confused and aroused you have to go about your day, smiling and being the required amount of attentive and diligent to whatever your employers needs are. All the while a maelstrom of emotions roiling underneath.

“What do they want?” “What happened?” What’s changed?”

Myself, ever the hopeless romantic, am only using examples according to love, but really the implications are truly tremendous.

Such a strange and wonderful power the text message has developed. One can be the best thing that happened to you that day, and one can be the thing you fall asleep thinking about.

And texting is like the goddamn wilderness! There’s no shepherd. No safe port in a storm, You send one rogue “Hey” that doesn’t get replied to and the wolves have an open invitation to your soul. No chance to pull it back, no shutting the gates. You just have to sit there and hope, or be ready to give up and move on.

Sometimes it’s really rough, especially at first. But eventually it levels out. If you’re lucky. Then it becomes a catalog. Enshrining the greatest hits of your interactions. Funny memes, gifs, flirts, questions and admissions.

Then it inevitably becomes a moratorium. Like a weird vigil to what could have been.

Not every time, mind you, but most.

Strange things these text messages…

Anyways, wanna get some tacos today?

Rather, I should ask, do you like to dance. And if so, what styles? was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Four hundred and eleven seconds is the precise measurement of time of the hug that preceded their last kiss. A paradoxically long time to hug someone, to be sure. The boy remembered reading something from somewhere that stated, quite scientifically, the duration of time it takes for the brain to begin producing Oxytocin is seventeen seconds, provided these seventeen seconds are spent hugging someone. You see, Oxytocin is the neurochemical responsible for many of the feelings we commonly refer to as “Love”. Romantic and metaphysical arguments aside, the fact perplexed the boy for quite some time.

Even among friends and lovers a seventeen second hug would be a rarity, perhaps even odd. A paramore might very well indulge you, should you keep holding into a hug after the customary time limit, but that time would be spent in puzzlement at the reason for the unusually long hug.

Would this affect the Oxytocin? he thought. Who’s to say? Experimentation was needed.

Thus the boy took to explaining this nugget of information during the silence that usually accompanies long hugs with good friends. But even informed, the amount of people willing to engage in a hug for seventeen seconds is smaller than you’d think.

Enter the girl. She listened attentively when he explained the nature of his experiment as they hugged, and remarkably, as the seconds ticked by, there was no impatience, or discomfort, they both just settled into the hug. Much the same way you settle into a stretch, slowly and deliberately with gentle attention and care.

Thus began the unspoken agreement between the two to always allow for as much time as the other desired for a given hug. It was not always quite clear which of them sent the silent signal that all people do to initiate the “end” of a hug. But the boy knew one thing. These were the best hugs of his life.

Always having been predisposed to hugging coworkers, friends, and family, the boy was quite the practiced hugger, and he was often complimented on the proficiency and vigor with which he hugged. The boy always smiled with gratitude, but never thought to categorize people in his mind as good huggers or bad huggers, he was always too preoccupied with bestowing the proper hug in any given scenario to notice whether or not there was something missing from the other side of the hug.

However, these hugs were different. Obviously, due to the intentional nature of their long duration, but in a lifetime filled with as many hugs as he could reasonably acquire and doll out, it was saying something that these hugs undeniably surpassed the entire repertoire of his hugging experience.

But Love with a capital L is not an easy tune to play, and even two practiced musicians can fall out of harmony as the winds of fate waft in and through our decisions and experiences.

And so the boy and the girl danced, as it were, around the idea of what could be. With a few missteps, a sharp note here and there, they inevitably arrived back at the place where they began, as friends.

On the day this perfect circle closed its loop, the world hummed in harmony. The wine, a delicious french blend that neither of them could pronounce nor remember, shaded the afternoon in a wistful sadness. The kind of sadness that also smiles.

They walked and they talked of their pasts and their futures, of many little and big things. They shared stories, admiration, laughter, and a panini. Both of them nodding and waving at the beautiful ship they watched sail away called “What Could Have Been.”

It was after all this that the longest of their hugs began. Unaware of the world around, they breathed and smiled into the hug. They spoke soft apologies and sweet gratitudes. They hugged each other and felt the world turn around them. Four hundred and eleven seconds it took for them to realize that at journey’s end, and after all, it was worth the risk.

And so they kissed.

It was a kiss made a dozen different kinds of kisses. It was the hungry kiss of a lover, feverish, eye half open looking for the nearest bed. It was the comfortable kiss that immediately turns into a smile. It was the pure kiss of two children who have no names or understanding of the feelings urging them on. It was a kiss made of two people desperately tracing every line of each other. Letting all that had been and all that would never be wash over them, together.

And to this day, sometimes the boy will feel a phantom tingle on his lips. Unconsciously, his hand comes up to brush his finger over his lips. His eyes will close and he will think back to that point in time in space when he kissed a girl after an impossibly long hug, and he will smile because he knows that the kiss and the hug are still happening, and they always will be.

The Story of a Kiss was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Long tanned legs, cold beers, weekends, pickup trucks. We get it, bro, you like to have fun.” He thought to himself, annoyed, but defeated; as he walked into the little dive bar as the latest Luke Combs banger blasted out the speakers.

He had been to this dive bar before. In fact, he had been here just yesterday. And the day before, and the day before that. This dive bar has never not played country music.

He hated that.

But here he was again, sitting on a bar stool at the corner, ordering a beer.

“I don’t even want this beer.” He thought to himself approximately 1.2 seconds after ordering a beer; it was already too late.

“Shit, that’s the name of a country song, that Tyler Farr song.” He hated that he knew that. “Tyler Farr, man, whatever happened to him?”

Next thing he knew, he’s already on his third Shiner. Born and bred in San Antonio, he had always been more of a Pearl guy. But he hadn’t had a sip of Pearl for four years now.

“Want a couple rounds of shots of Bourbon before I shut this thing down in about ten minutes?” He looked up and saw Lee, the owner and bartender number one at this little bitty dive, he’s known Lee since the first time he’s ever stepped foot in this bar, five years ago today.

It was raining that day.

“Hi, Tom.” she smiled, and sat right down on the bar stool next to his. He had met her just moments ago outside this bar, where she asked for a light, they ended up sharing a cigarette, and then she told him smoking is bad for him.

“Catherine.” He smiled.

Catherine was out of his league. It was so obvious to him, it was so obvious to Lee, but she talked to him like she doesn’t know that. She had red lipstick and Shiner on her lips; he didn’t agree with her choice of beer, but he chuckled when she made fun of Pearl.

By her fourth Shiner, he had learned that she really, really enjoys country music. There hadn’t been a song she hadn’t sung along to. Although he had to admit, if he could, he would probably write a song about her long tanned legs, too.

That was the day Catherine came into his life, he hadn’t spent another day without seeing her smile since.

Soon she was stacking up Pearl beer in half of his fridge, and Shiner in another half. She hated Pearl. She was a Shiner girl. But she loved him.

And he loved her.

He loved his life with her, he loved those days in the Texas sun. He wondered what it would sound like to say her first and his last name.

He never stopped wondering about that.

“Hey, Tom, buddy, what do you say about ’em shots?” Lee asked again.

“Yeah brother, hit me.”

Lee and Tom took their first shot in sync.

“Do you still miss her?” Lee started pouring the second round.

“Four years is a long time to miss someone.” He said, without any detectable emotion. Four years ago, he was sitting right here on the same bar stool, with a diamond in his pocket that he had been carrying around for months. Just like he’s carrying it in his pocket tonight.

He didn’t plan on giving it to anyone tonight though. He hadn’t even thought about giving it away for four years now.

“Catherine was a cool chick, man. Sucks that life is so unpredictable and one day your life will just come to an end because some asshole had a little too much to drink before they got behind the wheel.” Lee went ahead and took the second shot of Bourbon.

Four years ago, one night, Tom ran out of Pearl in his fridge, leaving him with half a fridge of Shiner. He hadn’t had another Pearl since.

Tom was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The morning thrummed in a wordless harmony that matched the quick beating of Joel’s heart. His forehead was dotted with beads of sweat that glistened in the bluish light of the early morning, yet despite his vigorous awakening the corner of his mouth tugged upwards towards his right ear.

“Computer, open my Dream Journal, new entry entitled,” He paused, briefly considering the title of his most recent nightly escapade. His smirk added another line into the right side of his face as he thought of something sufficiently clever. “A Last Resort.”

After the device’s perfunctory compliance, he rattled off a quick summary of a dream filled with unnecessarily brazen exploits in what could have been a decent C-Level action flick about a Traveler that gets involved with espionage hijinx in a beach resort in the Caribbean.

During his avid monologue, he moved in slow, graceful movements around the room. What initially seemed like a martial arts form, slowly turned into a fluid amalgam of an improvised stretch and a creative way to make his bed.

What began as a measured step forward evolved into a forward bend, and ended with him swimming his arms out and above his head, which was now parallel to the floor, and finished with him grasping, straightening, and ordering the near side of his bed sheets.

“And then I sprinted forward, dropping to my knees in an impressive slide that took me under a barrier, and beneath the dessert table!” he said, spreading out the wrinkles from his comforter.

He straightened, the fingers on his left hand cradling his chin. index finger absent-mindedly tapping on his nose. A habitually signature gesture that had long since become too unconscious for him to notice. “The End.” he said with a nod of approval.

“Computer, put on playlist, Awakening.”

The slow, steady tones of an electric cello reverberated through his loft apartment as he busied himself with his morning routine. Hygiene, stretches, bolting down a liter of water, a quick exercise routine that focused on bodyweight exercises, and finally a frankenstein-esque shake of protein powder, dehydrated greens, and other health-oriented supplements.

During this familiar cycle of activities, his playlist meandered from upbeat instruments, to ambient soundscapes, to relaxing electronica, each song intentionally timed to accompany the required energy level of each activity.

Ultimately, he arrived at the full lotus posture for meditation at the same time a Tibetan Meditation Bowl track began. The resonant hum of the instrument filling the apartment with clarity as Joel lit an incence stick of Nag Champa.

“Computer. Pause music. Set a timer for one hour.”

His hands folded into an iconic mudra designed for opening one’s third eye. He settled into the stillness and silence for the next hour.

It was the sound of softly chirping birds that lulled him back to focus on physical reality. I should increase my sit time. He thought idly, as he reluctant stood and shut off the electronically simulated avians.

“Computer. Hold all calls and alerts for the next two hours and put on playlist ‘Writeskis’.” he said. As he sat down at his desk.

The cursor sat on the blank page, blinking its steady rhythm, awaiting the words of the story he intended to write.

“Let’s see... “ he said. Tapping at the keys too lightly to type any letters. Just enough to hear the soft clicks that mimicked the sound of the flow of writing.

“Ah yes.” His telltale smirk once again appeared on his face as the cursor began to move across the page the words emerging as if directly from the ether as he began to write his story.

“The morning thrummed in a wordless harmony that matched the quick beating of Joel’s heart…”

The Recursive Cursor was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Yes sir, just three easy steps, and five simple payments you could be on your way to Nirvana right now!” the salesmen held the scanner up to him. “Just a swipe of the thumb right here sir! Yessir!”

Vince swallowed down a lump of indecision and swiped his thumb. A hologram erupted between him and the salesmen.

“Just lean forward and recieve the burst packet and give it 24 hours to integrate and it’ll be La Tee Dah in Shangralah for you sir! Yessir! Today, April 10th will be the day you remember as the last day of your former life!”

The high pitched and rapid tamber of the Salesmen’s voice had lulled Vince into a kind of trance, but his last words felt like cold electricity had coursed through him as he leaned forward to let the flashing pictograms stream into his open eyes.

The coincidence was completely lost on the salesmen as Vincent stumbled his way past. It was not random chance that had Vincent was out on a Wednesday night in the seedier parts of New Houston with a good mind to end up with no memory of his debauchery when next he woke. It was on this day three years ago that that same cold bolt of lighting had torn his world apart.

Images of her flashed through his mind unbidden. Eight years, and she had taken all of 40 minutes to end it. April 10th had indeed been the last day of his former life.

The dirty steam from the street and the cold sweat on his neck combined in a kind of existential nausea. He leaned against a corner and tried to vomit, and failed at that too.

“Hey there fella. You don’t look so good. Wanna come upstairs and I’ll put a nice cool rag on your forehead?” said a sweet voice. But it wasn’t sweet like cherry or a strawberry, it was sweet like a spoonful of high fructose corn syrup.

“I’ll be okay soon. I’m just waiting for it to pass.” For three fucking years. The last part he thought only to himself as a dark smile crossed his face.

Several minutes of stumbling and a very annoying Lyft ride home in which the driver seemed pathologically determined to bond with Vince. He briefly missed the good old days when every cab driver was seemingly all sworn to the same code of “only speak when spoken to.”

He navigated the stairs to his apartment and fell face first into his bed, fully clothed.

Vincent awoke without opening his eyes. He hoped that he could stave off the pain from the inevitable hangover His memories were less than crystal from the night before. In his usual tradition he had taken this day off work and planned to spend it how he always did. In bed with chinese delivery and a binge-watch of something comforting on whatever streaming service caught his attention first.

There was however, something different. A small blinking light in his retinal display vied for his attention. He opened his eyes and glanced up at the alert icon, the movement of his eye indicating to his integrated Cognitive Operating system that he was ready for the message.

ENLIGHTENMENT INTEGRATION COMPLETE. WELCOME TO STEP ONE.

The text unfurled in front of his eye.

“Oh fuck.” said Vincent. The memor of the ungodly sum of money that he had obligated to pay for what was undoubtedly the furthest thing from a legitimate course in spirituality came flooding back to him.

“Ah shit. Well, whatever. Guess it’s already paid for. Ok Computer, run program.”

STEP ONE: Enlightenment is bullshit.

Vincent couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Well at least it seems like it has a sense of humor.

ENLIGHTENMENT: The state of being absolutely free from all desire and attachment. And yet to achieve this state, One must want to become enlightened. If you give away all your possessions to become enlightened, if you leave everyone and everything in your life behind to become Spiritual, you are only exchanging your visible chains in life for one, much stronger, invisible chain. Your desire for enlightenment.

THE ONLY WAY TO BECOME ENLIGHTENED IS BY ACCIDENT.

That is it. That’s all three steps in one. You are now Enlightened. Or you aren’t, because being unenlightened and enlightened are the same thing in the end. So Enjoy.

The scrolling text came to an abrupt half, leaving Vincent alone. After a long moments contemplation. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.

“Hello? Jade Palace? Could I get a number 8, extra spicy?”

How to Become Enlightened in Three Easy Steps was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“So when will we all see each other again?” Damon breaks the comfortable silence around the bonfire as the fire slowly, but progressively, dances away into the night.

“Soon, hopefully.” Delilah looks at him and smiles.

So vague it’s almost insincere if it wasn’t for the sparkles in her eyes. Delilah has always been described as an enigma; something about her you just can’t quite put a finger on. There’s grace in the way she carries herself, but nobody really knows it is actually somewhat a disguise of her fear of rejection.

But then there’s Damon.

Still sitting by the fire, eyes locked on Delilah, Damon smiles at the sight of her like she’s heaven on earth.

“Soon, indeed, my dear. I look forward to seeing both your beautiful faces again.” Instead of getting up, Bruce just tips it back to take it all in one last time. Delilah’s best friend, and the closest thing she has to family; Bruce is always like that, more in the moment than the moment itself, as if each moment of his simply lasts longer than others.

Delilah gives Bruce a long, hard hug, she almost couldn’t hide the tears in her eyes.

Then there’s Damon.

She wants to love him but she doesn’t know how. She wants to stay, but she’s too afraid to be let down.

Damon pulls her in and kisses her on the forehead, then watches her rides away on her horse, just like a cowgirl.

Behind a cloud of dust, there goes the girl Damon wants to love; but doesn’t know how. He wants to stay, but he’s too afraid that she won’t.

“Man I hope she has the best adventures.” Bruce hands the whiskey bottle over to Damon.

“Yeah. Me, too.” Damon mumbles.

Bruce looks at Damon, so in love with his best friend, but also too in love to be with her.

“You kids are gonna figure it out one day.” Bruce doesn’t really believe that, but he wholeheartedly hopes so.

Damon laughs, having zero clue that he would find himself lying in a desert somewhere in the Middle East all alone about two years from this very moment.

Well, he’s always suspected that’s the situation he would find himself in one day, but it still comes as a shock when he actually finds himself in it.

He’s also always suspected that when he’s bleeding out to death somewhere out in the wild, all alone, Delilah would be the only thing on his mind.

Completely aware of the fact he’s about to bleed to death, but too worn out to do anything about it; Damon suddenly remembers that one night when he’s lying next to Delilah somewhere in the prairie, staring into the night sky filled with stars in perfect silence, and the way she gazes into the blanket of stars.

“Are you secretly, silently, talking to the stars, Delilah?”

“Maybe.”

“What did you tell them?”

“If you tried hard enough, they might just tell you one day.”

That’s so Delilah.

Damon smiles, then immediately comes to the realization that he is on his last breath.

“Well, shit.” Damon would panic, but he doesn’t have the energy to.

“I guess I better make her name the one thing on my last breath.”

“Delilah.” He says her name into the cold, dark night. All alone, not another being in sight.

He takes another look at the stars before letting the weight of his eyes shut him down.

“Next time she talks to you guys, you better tell her about this.”

Ten thousand miles away, Delilah takes a sip of her favorite beer.

“I wonder what that boy is doing right now.”

“Damon? Whatever it is, I’m sure he’s thinking of you.” Bruce flips the pancake in his grandma’s hand-me-down cast iron; perfect landing.

Delilah chuckles. Bruce is always like that.

And then she thinks about that night when she pretended she didn’t notice Damon’s hour-long stare as she stared at the stars. She was almost certain he was going to ask her to stay this time, instead, he asked if she talks to the stars.

That’s so Damon.

“Maybe next time I’ll ask him to stay.”

“Is that what it takes for you to stay?”

“It just might.”

“I like the sound of that.” Bruce smiles, hands her a stack of pancakes. “Don’t worry, you kids will figure it out one day.”

Pancakes and stars was originally published in Lone Hearts Collective on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.