In a foolish attempt to find love, I actually ended up experiencing my own slow switching into the dull, endless ether of existence.
My journeybegan long ago over what could have been a year, but was more likely eons of moral attrition and it was eventually come to an end.
Yet, I appear as though I may never return home.
Even if I do, I obviously wont be the same.
There is an innocence born within you, meant to be weathered by the cyclones you choose to brave.
However, thanks to Tinder, I don’t havethe is a requirement to pursue these storms.
Ican instead call hurricanes into my home, eroding my emotions with the gale army of another poorly written bio saying you “enjoy movies.”
I adjusted my toned, callus-tipped index finger upon the battered glass of my phone, applying pure muscle remember to hurl yet another profile depict to the right like a soggy paper towel, hoping it protrudes upon the wall of my heart.
It was not unlike shaking mitts with the devil himself.
My simple stroke was enough of a signature to sign over my soul.
I contacted my 1,000 th coincide, approximately twice the population of Vatican City.
How fitting that upon this grey-headed, melancholy milestone, my God has leaved me.
I have left-swiped my everlasting feeling, defining me adrift on an iron robe sea of lethargic jade.
Man was not made to lead an horde, yet I find myself cursed with a legion.
It was through hubris that I attained it, amassing myself like a bear upon a rock-and-roll period after nighttime, roaring into the mountains as if expecting the forest to bow.
How many echoes can the mountains ring back before they thrive silent?
How many bellows can a bear bellow before he hears to communicate?
How many Tinder swipes will it take until I am full?
Can I stop?
Though the light-footed may have left and my conscious may have grown cynical, climbing out of this pit would be just as threats as digging deeper.
The Earth responds me with a familiarity.
It asks if I would like to send a word or persist playing.
It knows I no longer am worried about the quality of the soil, and I only wish tofind the light-headed at the end of the tunnel.
It’s the same light I lost along the way.
My mind has worn thin.
Though my struggles at connection in the past may resemble carefully shedding a fishing row, but now, they are more akin to drunkenly filming acrossbow.
You asked if Iwas looking for something casual.”
I was mystified and replied, You necessitate like wearing blue jeans to work on a Friday? knowing full well this “ve got nothing” to do with pre-weekend apparel.
I changed my biography to a interminable narrative about two laughingstocks who walk into a table to talk about divorce and farts.
It has been called humorous and funny, ” but never an obvious cry for help, you shriveled straw of a Casanova.
Once I asked if someone could explain the entire planned of “Friday Night Lights” to me over message, as I hadnt understood the present and seemed curious to know the story.
Someonedid, and in great detail.
It was then I realized I had become both the command and his son, and I had to decide whether to brave the refuge or the sea.
Oh captain, my chieftain!
When did Ibecome the Walt Whitman of the atlantic provinces?
They say there is always other fish to the sea, but how does that facilitate me, a commercial angler who has grown tired of sailing?
Perhaps I am merely an Ishmael who has never seen my white-hot whale, but believes in it nonetheless.
Still, I lie awake at night.
The phones glow haunts my look as I swipe, sorting people into categories like the grown-up leaders of a young adult novels dystopian society.
My phone may buzz with a match, and what used to fill me with confidence and endorphins is now nothing but another notification.
I know it merely to be another drop in the container, and Im not even that thirsty.