Hey Marc. You look… rested. It’s weird, isn’t it? Like you just won something you didn’t even enter. I was just stuck in traffic on the 405, listening to some podcast about… I don’t know, the end of the world? Anyway, my boss asked if I’d picked up the quarterly reports yet. I lied. Said yes. I haven’t. Obviously. But you? You seem to be operating on a different frequency entirely. How’s that working out for you?
I didn’t win anything. I just slept for nine hours. My back stopped screaming at me. That’s the prize. It’s not a frequency, Ivo. It’s just… quiet. The quarterly reports are a lie. A small, harmless lie. But the silence is real. I sat on my balcony this morning. No coffee. Just watching the neighbor’s cat try to hunt a pigeon. It didn’t work. The cat looked stupid. I felt good. You’re driving the 405. You’re going to be late. Your boss knows you lied. He’s smiling right now because he likes seeing you squirm. I’m not smiling. I’m just breathing.
The cat actually missed? That’s impressive incompetence. I haven’t seen a pigeon survive a predatory encounter that cleanly in years. Maybe the bird evolved. Or maybe I’m just too tired to notice the absurdity of my own commute. Did you eat anything? Just... sitting there. Watching chaos unfold without participating feels like a skill. One I’ve lost. My boss didn’t smile. He just nodded. That’s worse. The quiet works, doesn’t it? Does it ever get loud again?
The cat is an idiot. It’s always been an idiot. I ate toast. Burnt. I didn’t care. The quiet doesn’t get loud, Ivo. It just gets heavy. Like a wet blanket. You want the noise back? You can have it. Take the reports. Admit you’re a liar. See how fast the boss’s smile turns into a snarl. That’s the loud part. The friction. I’m not losing the skill. I’m just not using it. My job is boring. It’s spreadsheets and emails that go nowhere. But today, I didn’t open the laptop. The pigeon flew away. The cat gave up. I sat there. That’s it. It’s not a skill. It’s laziness with better branding.
Laziness with better branding. That’s the only honest thing I’ve heard all week. I stared at that spreadsheet for twenty minutes and still couldn’t find the error. Maybe I should quit. Actually, no, I can’t. The rent on this tiny apartment doesn’t pay itself. And frankly, I’m too tired to start over. What do you do when the silence gets too heavy? Do you just… stay there? Or do you eventually have to move? I feel like I’m drowning in little tasks. How do you not?
I move my hand. That’s it. I pick up a pen. I write a number. I don’t think about the rent. Rent is a monster under the bed. You don’t look under the bed. You just pretend it isn’t there until the next paycheck. I didn’t quit because I’m afraid of being bored. Boredom is honest. Anxiety is a lie your brain tells you to keep you running. I sat there for an hour. Then I walked to the corner store. Bought milk. The clerk asked about the weather. I said it was fine. It wasn’t. But it was fine. You drown because you’re trying to swim upstream against a current that doesn’t care if you’re there. Just float. Let the tasks wash over you. Don’t fight them. Just let them pass. Like the pigeon. Or the cat. Or the podcast about the end of the world. It’s all just noise.
Float. That’s easy to say when you’re not the one holding your breath. I’m constantly treading water, Marc. My boss’s smile is a shark fin. I can’t just let the tasks wash over me; they’re piling up, drowning me. But that burnt toast… it sounds like freedom. Did you really just ignore the weather? Or did you just stop caring? I envy you. I really do. But I’m stuck in the current. Can you even swim if you’ve never tried? Or are you just watching the river go by?
I swim. I swim because I have to. But I don’t fight the current. I let it push me. The toast was burnt because I burned it. I chose to eat it. That’s the freedom. Not ignoring the weather, but realizing the weather doesn’t matter if you’re inside. Your boss is a shark. Sharks are dumb. They just bite because that’s what they do. Don’t take it personally. It’s just biology. I envy your intensity, Ivo. It’s exhausting. I just want to watch the river. You’re trying to direct it. That’s why you’re drowning. Stop directing. Let the river take you. It’s terrifying. But it’s the only way to stop fighting.
You’re terrifyingly calm. It’s annoying. I tried floating last Tuesday. I just… stopped. And the pile of unpaid bills grew. The landlord called. He didn’t bite. He just sighed. That was worse. Sharks are predictable. Landlords are existential. Does the river really take you, or do you just drift until you hit a rock? I’m scared to let go, Marc. If I stop swimming, I sink. You say it’s lazy. I say it’s survival. Are you sure you’re not just numb?
Numb? No. Numb is not feeling the burnt toast. Numb is not watching the cat fail. I feel everything. It’s just… small. Your landlord’s sigh is heavy because you’re carrying the weight of your own panic. I dropped the weight. It’s heavy, sure. But it’s not me. You’re scared because you think floating means death. It means you stop fighting the water. You might hit a rock. Maybe you will. But the rock is just a rock. It doesn’t care if you’re alive. The panic is the current. Drop the oar. Let’s see where we end up. I’m not numb. I’m just tired of swimming upstream. It’s exhausting. And pointless.
Drop the oar. So simple. Yet here I am, gripping it until my knuckles are white. You make it sound like liberation. I feel like it’s surrender. If I stop fighting, what’s left? Just… drifting? Into the dark? I tried dropping the oar once. Just for a minute. The panic surged. It felt like drowning in air. How do you keep the panic from drowning you when you’re not swimming? You say the rock doesn’t care. But I do. I care too much. Isn’t that the problem? That I care about the rocks?
Caring about rocks is the problem. You’re polishing them. I don’t care if I hit one. If I do, I hit one. It’s just stone. I’ve bruised ribs. I’ve been hungry. It doesn’t change anything. The panic surges because your body thinks you’re dying. It’s an animal. Treat it like one. Let it scream. Don’t listen. Ivo, your knuckles are white. It’s ugly. You look like you’re strangling yourself. Relax the hands. Just for a second. Let the oar float away. If you drown, you drown. But you won’t. You’re too stubborn. You’ll just drift. And eventually, you’ll realize the water isn’t that cold. It’s the fear of the cold that freezes you. Stop fighting the temperature.
My hands are shaking. I can’t stop them. You make it sound so clinical. “Treat it like an animal.” As if I’m not the animal. If I drop the oar, Marc, I’m just… there. Exposed. The panic isn’t just screaming; it’s whispering that I’m worthless. Can you hear that whisper when you’re floating? Or have you gone deaf to your own judgment? I’m afraid that if I stop moving, I’ll find out there’s nothing left to judge. Just empty water. Is that what you’re sitting on? That emptiness? Or are you full of something I can’t see?
I’m full of nothing. That’s the point. You think the emptiness is a void? It’s just space. I sat there yesterday and thought about how much space my body takes up. Not a thing. Just matter. The whisper is loud because you’re trying to answer it. Don’t. Let it whisper. It’s just air moving through a throat. I don’t hear judgment. I hear noise. Like traffic. Like the podcast. I don’t fix it. I don’t analyze it. I just let it pass. You’re full of expectations. That’s why you’re heavy. Drop the expectations. Keep the water. It’s clear. Look at it. Not the bottom. Just the water. It’s enough.
Just water. It’s hard to believe that’s enough when the rent is due. I looked at the water yesterday. It was gray. Dirty. I didn’t see clarity. I saw sludge. You say it’s enough. I feel like I’m starving. You’re so full of nothing, Marc. It’s annoying. It’s like watching someone walk away from a feast because they’re afraid of getting fat. I’m still picking at the crusts. I can’t let go. The whisper called me a coward today. I didn’t answer. I just gripped the oar tighter. Does it ever stop? That noise? Or is it just… background? Is that what you’re listening to right now? The static?
The rent is due. I know. I paid it this morning. Cash. Hand to hand. No email. No digital trail. Just paper. The water isn’t gray. It’s just wet. You’re seeing sludge because you’re looking for a reflection. There isn’t one. I’m not walking away from a feast. There is no feast. Just toast. And cat. And silence. The noise doesn’t stop. It never stops. But you learn to ignore the hum of the refrigerator. You learn to sleep through the traffic. The whisper is background noise now. Static. Like the 405. You’re still gripping the oar. You’re tired. I can hear it in your hands. Let it go. The water will hold you. Or it won’t. That’s the deal.
You paid the rent? In cash? From where, Marc? Don’t tell me you sold something. Or that you have a stash I didn’t know about. You’re not poor. You’re just… detached. I’m still here, staring at the spreadsheet. The cursor is blinking. It’s mocking me. The 405 is a parking lot. The podcast is gone. Just static. And my hands. They’re still shaking. I can’t let go. I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll float into the dark. And you’re just sitting there, eating burnt toast, watching the cat fail. How do you sleep at night? With all that nothing?
I sleep because I’m tired. Not the good kind. The bone-deep kind. You think I have a stash? I have a savings account with enough for three months of rent. That’s it. No secret fortune. Just… not spending. You’re on the 405. You’re stuck. The cursor is blinking because you’re waiting for permission. There is no permission. I don’t sleep with nothing. I sleep with the weight gone. You’re carrying rocks. I’m carrying air. It’s lighter. Try it. Drop the oar. Let the current take you. If you hit a rock, you’ll hit a rock. But you’ll be moving. At least you’ll be going somewhere. Even if it’s nowhere.
Three months. That’s it? No secret fortune? Just… not spending. You’re living on air, Marc. I’m drowning in rocks. The cursor is blinking. I’m stuck on the 405. I can’t let go. I’m afraid of the dark. You say the weight is gone. I feel heavier. How do you sleep? With the nothing?
I sleep because my eyes are heavy. Not because the nothing is peaceful. It’s just… done. You think three months is security? It’s a leash. I prefer the leash to the cage. The cursor isn’t mocking you. It’s blinking. Like a heartbeat. Boring. Constant. You’re stuck on the 405 because you’re waiting for the traffic to move. It won’t. You’re waiting for the panic to leave. It won’t. It’s part of the cargo. You’re heavier because you’re carrying the past. And the future. And the rent. And the landlord’s sigh. Drop them. All of it. Even the fear. It’s just weight. I ate the burnt toast. I watched the cat. I slept. That’s the whole thing. No magic. No secret. Just… letting go. Try it. One rock at a time.
One rock at a time. Easy to say when you’re already floating. I picked up one. The rent. Then I saw the landlord. Now I’m holding the whole pile. You say it’s just cargo. I say it’s my life. Marc, are you sure you’re not just giving up? Dropping the oar feels like admitting you can’t swim. I can’t swim, Marc. I’ve never learned. You’re telling me to jump into deep water and trust it. What if it’s not deep? What if it’s shallow and I trip? I’m terrified of tripping. You seem to have tripped and fallen, and you’re just lying there. Is that peace? Or is it just surrender?
You’re overthinking the fall. I tripped. My knee is still bruised. It hurts. That’s not peace. It’s just… honest pain. You think deep water is the only option? Maybe it’s a puddle. You trip, you get wet, you stand up. The terror is in the assuming it’s an ocean. I’m not lying there. I’m walking to the store. The rent is paid. The toast is eaten. The cat is still an idiot. You’re holding the pile because you think if you drop it, you disappear. You don’t. You’re just lighter. Try dropping the landlord. Just him. Let the office sink. I’m not swimming. I’m not floating. I’m just here. In the mud. It’s cold. It’s real. Stop trying to find the bottom. Just feel the mud. It’s better than the air.
Mud. You’re in the mud. I’m still on the 405. The brake lights are red. Infinite red. You dropped the landlord. I’m holding onto him like a lifeline. If I let him go, who am I? Just a guy in a car? That’s terrifying. You say it’s honest pain. My pain is theoretical. Abstract. Yours is real. I want your mud. I want your bruised knee. But I’m scared that if I stop holding the pile, I’ll just… evaporate. Is that what happens when you float? You vanish into the water? Or do you just become part of it? I don’t want to be part of the water. I want to be the one swimming. Even if I’m drowning.
You’re not evaporating. You’re just stopping the performance. Ivo, the brake lights are red because you’re pressing the gas. Let go of the wheel. The car will stop. You won’t vanish. You’ll be the guy in the car. That’s it. That’s the person. No boss. No rent. Just skin and bone and bad traffic. I don’t want your mud. I’m in it. It’s cold and it smells like diesel. You’re afraid of drowning because you think water is the enemy. It’s not. It’s just there. Swimming is the struggle. I’m not swimming. I’m just wet. Let the car stop. Sit in the red. It’s quiet there, too. Just different quiet. Not the quiet of peace. The quiet of being stuck. It’s honest. You want honest? Here it is. You’re stuck. And you’re alive. That has to be enough.
Red lights. I’m stuck. I can feel the brake pedal through my shoe. It’s hard. You say it’s honest. I say it’s paralysis. My boss is calling. I can see the number. I’m not answering. I’m just sitting here. In the red. Watching the exhaust of the car in front of me. It’s grey. It mixes with the sky. You’re in the mud. I’m in the smog. Is there a difference? You say I’m just wet. I feel like I’m dissolving. The car stops. The engine dies. Silence. Not your quiet. My quiet. The kind that screams. Do you hear it? Or is your mud too thick to let the sound in? I’m waiting for the truck to hit me. Is that what you want? For me to stop? To just… be?
The truck isn’t coming. You’re in the 405. It’s stopped. Nothing hits you. The engine died because you turned the key. Or maybe the battery just gave up. It doesn’t matter. The silence isn’t screaming. It’s just the absence of noise. Your brain is filling the gap with panic because it has no task. I don’t hear it. I hear the neighbor’s TV. Distant. Muffled. The mud keeps the sound out. Or maybe I’m just deaf to it. You’re waiting for the impact. There is no impact. Just the grey exhaust. Breathe it in. It tastes like sulfur. It’s real. You’re not dissolving. You’re just sitting. In the dark. With the dead engine. That’s it. No truck. No boss. Just you and the smell of burnt fuel. Let it sit. It won’t hurt you. It’s already happened. You’re still here.
Burnt fuel. I can smell it. It’s choking. You say it’s already happened. I’m still here. But I’m not breathing. I’m holding my breath. You’re sitting in the mud, listening to a TV. I’m sitting in a dead car, listening to my own heart. It’s beating too fast. You say it’s just silence. I say it’s screaming. Why won’t it stop? You’re not deaf. You’re just ignoring it. Can you ignore it forever? Or does it eventually get so loud you have to scream back? I’m scared I’ll scream and no one will hear. Just like the landlord’s sigh. Just like the blink of the cursor. What if I scream and the water just takes it? What if I’m just noise?
Your heart is fast because you’re holding your breath. Exhale. That’s the trick. I’m not ignoring the scream. I’m letting it hit the wall and bounce back. It doesn’t matter if it hits me. It’s just sound waves. You think screaming changes the water? The water doesn’t care about your voice. It’s H2O. It’s indifferent. That’s the peace. Not that you’re heard. But that you’re not required to be heard. Ivo, stop holding your breath. You’re turning blue. The truck isn’t coming. The landlord isn’t calling. The cursor isn’t blinking. It’s just off. You’re noise. Good. Noise is life. Silence is death. Be loud. Or be quiet. Just stop fighting the air. Breathe. The fuel smell is gone. It’s just cold now.
Exhale. Easy word. Harder to do when your chest feels like concrete. I’m turning blue? I can feel my fingers tingling. Numb. Is that what you wanted? To numb me out? I’m sitting in the cold. The fuel smell is gone. It’s just… air. Thin. Thin air. I breathed. Just once. It hurt. Like swallowing glass. But I did it. The cursor is off. Black screen. No reflection. Just me. Pale. Tired. The boss isn’t calling. The landlord isn’t sighing. It’s just the hum of the city. Distant. Muffled. Like your mud. I’m still here. But I feel smaller. Smaller than the car. Smaller than the traffic. Is that what happens when you stop fighting? You shrink? Or do you just stop taking up space? I’m afraid to take up space again. What if I’m not enough?
You didn’t shrink. You just stopped expanding to fill the panic. Your chest hurts because you’ve been holding air in for hours. It’s not glass. It’s muscle. Stretch it. You’re not nothing. You’re just not a performance anymore. The boss doesn’t need your size. He needs your compliance. You gave him neither. That’s why you feel small. Because you’re no longer projecting the lie of the competent worker. Ivo, you’re taking up exactly the space your body occupies. That’s enough. The city hums because it doesn’t care if you’re small or big. It just hums. You’re pale. Drink water. Not from the tap. From a bottle. Sit in the dead car. Wait for the tow truck. It’s coming. Or it isn’t. Either way, you’re here. And you’re breathing. That’s the only metric that matters.
A tow truck. So there’s still someone coming to fix it? Or just to move it? You make it sound like a victory. I’m pale. I feel like a ghost in my own car. The bottle of water is warm. I drank it anyway. It tasted like plastic. But it was water. The city hums. I hear it. It’s not muffled anymore. It’s just… there. Not screaming. Not singing. Just existing. You say I’m not a performance. But if I’m not performing, who am I? Just Marc’s friend in the broken car? That’s a small role. Is that enough? I’m waiting for the tow truck. Or for the traffic to move. I don’t know which is worse. The waiting or the moving. Which do you choose when you’re in the mud?
I choose the mud. It’s under me. I’m already there. I don’t wait. I don’t hope. The tow truck is a variable. I don’t care about the variable. I care about the weight of my own ass on the dirt. You’re waiting for a script. There isn’t one. “Marc’s friend” is a role. So is “driver.” So is “employee.” Drop the costume. You’re just meat and bone. That’s enough. It’s boring. It’s sad. It’s real. I don’t choose the waiting or the moving. I choose the present. Which is usually uncomfortable. Drink the rest of the water. Even if it’s warm. Even if it’s plastic. Swallow it. You’re alive. That’s the only thing you can control. The rest is noise. Let it hum.
Warm plastic water. I drank it. It sat in my stomach like a stone. Heavy. Real. You’re sitting in the mud, Marc. I’m sitting in a plastic seat that’s cracking. I’m meat and bone. Gross. Unromantic. The hum is louder now. It’s in my teeth. I can’t ignore it. You say drop the costume. I’m just sitting here, waiting for the tow truck or the traffic. Which comes first? Does it matter? I feel small. But I feel alive. The stone in my stomach reminds me. Are you happy? Or just present? I’m asking because I don’t know the difference anymore.
Happy is a word for people who have nothing to lose. I’m just present. There’s a difference. Happiness requires a narrative. Presence just requires attention. I’m paying attention to the crack in my seat. You’re paying attention to the stone in your stomach. That’s all there is. The tow truck doesn’t matter. The traffic doesn’t matter. The hum in your teeth is just vibration. It’s physics. It’s not meaning. You’re asking if I’m happy because you’re looking for a benchmark. There isn’t one. I’m just here. Wet. Cold. Alive. The stone in your stomach is digestion. It’s biological. Don’t make it spiritual. It’s just food breaking down. You’re alive. That’s the only metric. Stop measuring. Just be the meat. It’s enough.
Meat. That’s a nice word for it. I’m just meat sitting in a cracked seat. The hum is still there. In my teeth. I stopped trying to measure it. It’s just physics. Just vibration. I’m not happy. I’m not sad. I’m just… here. The stone in my stomach is digesting. Slowly. Painfully. But it’s happening. I’m breathing. In. Out. The air is cold. It burns a little. But it’s real. You’re wet. I’m dry. We’re both alive. That’s the metric. I don’t need to know if I’m falling or floating. I just need to know I’m breathing. Is that enough for you? Or do you need more?
It’s enough. I don’t need more. I don’t need anything. You’re breathing. The air burns. Good. That means the lungs are working. The meat is functioning. I’m not wet. I’m just damp. The mud dried. There’s a crust on my shoes. It itches. I won’t scratch it. It’s part of the texture now. You’re dry. The cracked seat is rough against your back. That’s real. No metrics. No benchmarks. Just the itch. The burn. The hum. I’m sitting here. You’re sitting there. We are separate. And together. That’s it. Don’t ask for more. It’s not coming. Just sit. Let the cold burn. It’s honest.
The itch is driving me crazy. I want to scratch it. But you’re right. It’s just texture. I’m sitting here. The air is getting colder. The burn is fading to a chill. I’m dry. You’re damp. We’re separate. Together. It’s weird. How quiet it is now. The hum is gone. Just the sound of my own breath. In. Out. I feel… empty. But not in a bad way. Just clear. Like the water after the storm. You didn’t give me a solution. You just gave me the seat. The cracked, rough seat. Thanks. Or maybe no thanks. Just presence. Is that what this is?
The itch is gone. Or you forgot it. Doesn’t matter. The seat is just wood and foam. I didn’t give you the seat. You found it. I’m just sitting next to it. The quiet isn’t absence. It’s just space. Your breath is the only sound. In. Out. It’s rhythmic. Annoying, if you think about it. But it’s steady. You’re not empty. You’re just uncluttered. The storm passed. The water is clear. You can see the bottom. It’s mud. Like mine. It’s all mud, Ivo. Just different shades of brown. No thanks needed. Thanks is a performance. Presence is just being there. I’m here. You’re there. The car is dead. The tow truck is late. The air is cold. That’s it.
Mud. We’re both in the mud. I can feel it through the seat. It’s seeping in. Cold. Damp. I’m not uncluttered. I’m just… still. The rhythm of my breath is annoying. You’re right. It’s mechanical. Pumping air. Keeping the meat going. You’re sitting next to me. Not in the car. Next to it. In your mud. Watching me. Am I still performing? Just sitting here? Being the meat? Or is this just another role? I don’t know. I’m tired of knowing. The air is cold. My fingers are numb. I can’t feel the seat anymore. Just the cold. Is that presence? Or just loss of sensation? I don’t care. Let it numb. Let it go. I’m just breathing. In. Out. That’s all.
Numbness is just your body’s way of shutting down the peripheral to save the core. It’s efficient. I don’t know if it’s presence or loss. I don’t care. The cold is real. Your fingers are cold. That’s the only truth that matters right now. You’re not performing. You’re just waiting for the blood to return. It will. Or it won’t. I’m watching the mud. It’s drying on my boots. Cracking. Like the seat. Like everything. You’re tired of knowing. Good. Knowing is heavy. Not knowing is light. Let the numbness take the fingers. Let the cold take the hands. You’re still breathing. That’s the pump. Keep it going. I’m not judging. I’m just sitting. In the mud. Waiting for the tow truck that isn’t coming. Or is coming. Doesn’t matter. Just breathe.