Capturing a Story

Ever get lost in the internet? Just lose yourself in the connections until they begin to make sense—almost. Then the internet becomes the most distracting thing ever invented. The activity is habit forming, the addiction insidious and sudden.

I only wanted to check a few sports scores, some social media updates, then do a little research for a new story. Stories don’t write themselves, not yet anyway, but I’m sure someone will make an app for that soon enough. Where did all the time go? What happened to my motivation? All I have to show for the last couple hours are eyes made bleary by electric fuzz and a digital path of haphazard clicks.

I was hunting for a story, where did I take a wrong turn?

I’m coming apart at the seams. The warring aspects of my body are stretching the space between my ribs, creating streams where moments rush through like silver minnows. The pressure of competing polarities make certain there is nothing fast or exciting about my dissolution. I am made heavy, slumped in front of the screen. I couldn’t catch a story if it crawled onto my lap.

This process happens to people everyday, I’ve seen it in their blank expressions, eyes duller than worn out pavement. A person numbed into an inhuman material. Reduced to becoming a receiver of incoming stimulus. At best a reflector of chatter. How to reanimate? To take a break from the static?

I need to get the blood flowing.

Go to nature, says the body, quietly observe the trees whispering to each other.

Ah yes! Outside!

I hear the wind brush against stone, see trickling water effortlessly bend the land, investigate mysterious rustling as creatures hide from my interloper footsteps. Nature does not need my presence to continue, gracefully accepting of my entering into the flow. I exhale. My ragged lungs rejoice as I inhale the unbothered rhythm of nature.

Find a woman, says the body, nothing allows for a grip of the here and now like the curve of a feminine hip. I could lose myself in another, be swallowed by lust, become intoxicated by the softness of offered lips. But my lover has gone away. No sweet embrace this day.

Oh well, says the body, it is hunger that truly rules. There is an intrinsic truth felt in the grumble of an empty stomach, yet hunger can only be temporarily satiated, always returning just as fiercely as before. Thankfully, my present circumstances allow for this dilemma to remedied easily enough. But now what?

The body shrugs noncommittally, go to sleep. But I can’t, hunting as I am. So I plod onward.

A city never sleeps, nor does a forest, and neither does a body. There is always activity buzzing beneath the surface of any environment, moving parts of a system subtly chasing their own ambitions and unknowingly contributing to an overarching process. Countless individual stories swirling about and intermingling. A story is what I need. If only I could snag one, tame it, make it my own, then reintroduce it to the wild.

Here is where the hunt ends. All I managed to procure was a blog post. Maybe I’ll catch a story next time. Better upload this to the internet. Full circle.

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