I got a piece of advice that I'm testing. The advice is to do nothing when there is an urge to take some hasty action. This can be twisted, but it can also be true. There is a moment of discernment needed to decide when action takes the stage from inaction.

Inaction doesn't truly mean doing nothing. It means doing something else.

So, till exempel, if there is an urge to reach out and say hello, ask how things are going, or just chat about the weather, the proper action may be to do nothing. There is a difficulty because some other modes would prefer the action and reaching out to.

The writing, the thinking, and the push-ups all come back to the same thing: keep the mind occupied away from the urge to action. That sentence is whack lol.

A question: what's so wrong with action?

Kind of a thing where the words form, but there is caution to let them out. The words may be, "I love you" or "this sucks" or "life is better with a best friend" or any number of things that can't be said. None of those things actually do much.

And now we segue to "doing." Being someone to someone else is doing something. It doesn't matter about the "productivity" of one's actions (I say this with caution). Switching from "what I do" to "who I am" makes for an interesting change in perspective. It also feels like the writing is blocked by the self-conscious thoughts, the insecurities, the fear.

It could be the "one shot" mentality. There are many more shots at everything. It's not done, unless one chooses that. This writing feels weak and pathetic. It feels like writing with a filter. It doesn't seem to say what needs to be said. What needs to be said is a mystery. There is no convincing. There is no changing.

But there was one thing that stood out to me recently. It was the thought that using AI to write the perfect message may be less effective than using one's own words that may be broken but passionate. It is the passion, the intent, the feeling that give the words their meaning and effectiveness. An impassioned letter has force, while words are just words, however so arranged.

Passion...

The feelings are still here/there. That is not in question. The hope is alive. That has been questioned, but it has successfully defended itself against the questioning.

I could use these words to write the story. The story is one of romance and beauty. The story could have the intended effect. That is the story of how it fell apart and how it came back together. It was not left to the divine hand, but it was decided and actively sought. Life can be left to chance, waiting for something to happen. Or life can be a sea of opportunity that gives options, and it is up to the individual to choose their option. The individual chooses their path.

The parts of life that are left to chance should be left that way because those are the things outside of one's control. The things within one's control should be taken hold of and directed.

Where does that leave us?

That leaves us sitting and waiting. Or does it leave us looking at everything in existence to find something that makes sense? Or could one just make a plan, take action, and win or lose feel successful?

Random random random.

Brian sat in the cafe, reading a book, sipping a cappuccino. He didn't know if anyone would meet him. Although he had given notice and invited someone to join him at this location, there was never a response to such notice. The cafe he knew a little bit, having been there three times before. The last time, three years ago, he was there was a first date. His reason for being there on that exact day, three years later, was simple. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, someone would meet him at this cafe because they too were present three years earlier. His hope was unflappable amidst the chaos existing in his mind.

Brian sat in his seat for over four hours, just as he had done the last time. As he packed his things, a tear ran down his cheek. He didn't wipe this tear, and he wore it on his face like a badge of honor. Brian values his tears and is not afraid to let the waterworks happen. There are reasons for his tears, and he wants nothing more than to have that conversation with someone other than himself. As he walked away from the table, he turned back, looking at the place he sat, remembering these hours and the four hours he spent there the time before.

He left the cafe, with wetness on his face. His thoughts ran wild, and he told himself to do nothing, to allow the moment to pass. He walked across the street and closed his eyes for just a moment, a long blink to center himself. He heard the sound before he felt it. Tires screeching, brakes of a large vehicle engaging, someone's voice yelling out, a chaotic scene unfolded in the one second he closed his eyes. Panic-stricken, Brian opened his eyes and in the next moment, he felt it. The bus that was slamming on brakes made contact. He was standing directly in the road when the bus hit him. The instant felt like a lifetime. All that flashed before his eyes in that moment was the life he hadn't lived yet. The woman of his dreams, their children, living life together, growing old together. He was violently thrown to the ground, and it was now the sound of bones breaking that filled his ears.

He laid on the ground, in what looked like a pile of jagged edges and improper bends for an arm and a leg. The blood running down his face filled his left eye, and he couldn't lift his hand to wipe it clean. People started to gather around him, and someone called for an ambulance. He felt the pain, and screamed when the realization of what happened settled in.

A face from the crowd around him got closer. It was her face. She ran to him and kneeled by him. She placed a hand on him, not minding the blood that now covered her hand. Tears ran down her face. As he looked through his one good eye, he saw her, really saw her. But she was fading. As he looked at her, the lights got dimmer, as if an eclipse were happening, but there was no eclipse. He wanted to speak but could only let out tiny sounds of pain. He wanted to hold her but couldn't lift his arms. He wanted to see here, but his vision was fading fast. He screamed louder than before but still couldn't manage words. In the moments after the scream, she spoke. She apologized for being late. She was trying to get there four hours earlier, but she was distracted and lost track of time. She thought she had time, she said in a flurry of words and emotions. It's not certain whether Brian heard those words. Her eyes filled with tears as the life left his. Brian died that day, his heart was filled with joy as he faded. She showed up, he thought. That was enough for him. The world kept turning, and Monday came like any other.