stuckindrafts

[stuckindrafts]

Prompt #004

“You move into an apartment where each room holds a different version of you.”

Standing in front of the apartment door, I hesitate. I’m not sure what I’ll find on the other side.

People have described it as a sort of pleasantly haunted house: like a wholesome version of A Christmas Carol. But knowing myself, it’s just as likely to play out like something directed by M. Night Shyamalan.

I muster up the courage, turn the key, and step into the hallway. I check, I'm alone. I double-check. Still alone.

I release a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding.

The hallway looks like it was lifted straight from one of my Pinterest boards. Whoever designed this potential nightmare at least did it with a wabi-sabi twist. I should probably read into that and decipher the metaphor being presented, but instead I’m already moving towards one of the three doors branching off the hall.

I open the first.

Grainy light filters through the cracked door. I peek in, but my eyes take a moment to adjust. I blink more times than I care to admit before realising the entire room is in black and white.

Not metaphorically. Literally devoid of colour, like one of those old MGM films I used to watch on rainy Sunday afternoons.

Then I spot myself, swaying in the middle of what I now recognise as a 1950s kitchen. Humming along to Lil’ Darlin’ by Count Basie.

This version of me doesn’t look much older or younger, just more… domestic.

I recognise her, though. She’s the part of me that feels most grounded while harvesting tomatoes or shelling peas. She has a playlist called A Sunday Kind of Love, filled with jazz standards. She quietly dreams of slow dancing in this very kitchen. Or being held while reading by the fire.

A softer, less guarded version of me.

I realise I’ve gotten a bit emotional watching her. Something deep in my chest stirs, a quiet ache for a simpler, slower life. So I leave her be, undisturbed. Let her sway to the last notes of the trumpets, submerged in her own world.

Back in the hallway, I approach the next door, this time with a bit more confidence.

I open it to find the living room of my first apartment, dimly lit by the flickering cold light of the television. On the rug, cross-legged, sits a younger version of me. Xbox controller in hand. Focused. Determined to sneak Ezio Auditore into a Templar base undetected. Shouting something at the screen about the camera angles changing mid-jump.

Cables, resistors, and Arduino kits are strewn across the coffee table. On the sofa, a laptop is rendering some chaotic After Effects experiment, its fans at full throttle, audibly threatening to achieve flight. Next to it: a camera bag with more lenses than I will ever learn to use.

I sit beside her. I must be around twenty-four here.

She’s anxiously chewing her bottom lip, head bobbing along to Kerry King’s riffs. A lot of nervous energy in that little body.

She’s the polar opposite of the woman in the kitchen. Hard to believe they’re the same person. But they are. They’ve lived through the same trauma. They just cope differently.

One suppresses, seeks out stimulation. The other, guided by self-knowledge, knows when to slow down.

I simultaneously pity and admire her. She has a long, tiring road ahead. Soon she’ll be confronting her own demons and unlearning her own toxicity. But she’s strong. Stronger than she knows. She’ll fight battles most people wouldn’t even notice exist.

I wish I could reassure her. Maybe warn her not to date that one guy with the fear of both commitment and abandonment. But that, too, will become a valuable lesson.

So I leave her. She mumbles “Requiescat in pace” to the screen. I mentally whisper the same to her.

Back in the hallway, I reach for the last door. I try the handle. It sticks, blocked by clutter on the floor.

I put my shoulder to it, push. It resists, then gives.

I’m met by my teenage self, sitting in her bedroom. In front of a mirror. Dressed in an oversized Kurt Cobain shirt. A shoebox in her lap, full of dried rose petals, handwritten letters, poems. The breakup box.

She’s crying. Loudly. Messily. A CD clicks into the stereo. The first notes of Górecki by Lamb begin to play.

I immediately close the door.

Hard no.

I’m not sadistic enough to watch myself musically self-flagellate like that.

There are some ghosts I’m not ready to exorcise.

So I turn back toward the first door in search of tea and, maybe for a little while, the company of that simpler version of me.

[stuckindrafts]

Prompt #003

“Everyone is now legally required to wear a sign that reveals their most irrational fear."

I came back home from a long and tiring day at work. It had started drizzling halfway through my commute. So once inside, I was eager to peel off my damp layers.

So eager, in fact, that I completely missed the box waiting for me in the hallway.

A decent part of the evening had passed before I noticed the thing sitting there. I sighed, immediately remembering what it was, and took it to the kitchen to fetch a knife.

It had been eight weeks since the bill passed…

In an attempt to force the redevelopment of a trait evolution had long bred out of us, empathy, the government introduced the Public Vulnerability Act.

The idea sounded noble enough: if we were constantly confronted by the fears and phobias of others, we’d grow more tolerant. Kinder. Maybe even feel something resembling compassion again.

It all sounded great at first. An attempt to reunite a population worn down by decades of division and online vitriol.

Until the enforcement plan was revealed.

Mandatory fear plaques: your worst fear, engraved on a phone-sized plate, hung around your neck at all times.

Opposing parties called it a grotesque invasion of privacy. They warned that, instead of bringing us closer, it would arm people with new ways to hurt each other. They called on the people to riot, to march for their rights. But the bill passed quietly… Too few showed up to the protests. Most were more invested in who was hiding in the radish costume on The Masked Singer.

So a few weeks later, everyone was required to complete a multiple-choice test. Simple yes-or-no statements, crafted by the country’s top psychologists, neurologists, and sociologists: designed to expose your innermost fear with just a few binary answers.

Some of my friends and coworkers had already received theirs. A couple of arachnophobias, some claustrophobias, two heights, one flight.

I cut open the box and slid the plaque out of its paper sleeve. Shiny. That probably wouldn’t last long with daily wear.

I ran my fingers over the engraving:

Scopophobia.

I opened my junk drawer, pulled out a marker, and flipped the plaque over. In thick black ink, I wrote:

“Nothing to see here.”

Then slipped the chain around my neck.

[stuckindrafts]

An Ongoing Identity Crisis (With Weekly Deadlines)

If you are wondering where you ended up...

Right. So. This is a blog. Or is it a journal? Yes, I know. I'm THAT person. I hate me too.

But here we are.

I’ve started giving myself weekly writing prompts in an attempt to claw my way back to something resembling a voice. A tone. An identity. A… thing. Something I lost, or slowly hollowed out myself, over the years.

So this is me, doing that. One writing prompt at a time. Scarringly public.

There’s no real plan. No moral arc. Just an overwhelming desire to sound clever enough that a future version of myself might read this and think, "At least I was somewhat articulate."

More likely, these entries will haunt me forever and be quietly deleted at 3AM, six months from now.

But I’m writing. That’s the point.

[stuckindrafts]

Prompt #002

"You’ve just been elected Mayor of Your Own Mind. What’s your first executive order?"

INAUGURATION ADDRESS: MAYOR OF MY OWN MIND

I want to thank you all for being present at my inauguration as Mayor of My Own Mind. Not all departments could be represented here today, several are still in disarray due to that one awkward incident in 2007.

In light of recent... developments, a few key departmental changes have been made. Please welcome these new heads of our departments:

First, the Treasury and Department of Late-Night Impulse Buying will be led by Inso Mnia. Budgetary decisions will now be made exclusively between 2 and 4 A.M.

Our Defence Department will be headed by Lance Hypervigi, trained extensively at the C.T.A. (Childhood Trauma Academy). His team specialises in neutralising perceived threats well before they actually exist.

Should you feel dissatisfied with any decisions made by this council, please contact our Helpdesk. It is staffed by highly trained, conflict-avoidant people pleasers who are prepared to bend over backwards (or just vanish entirely), depending on your preference.

For all media inquiries, questions, or vague social obligations, you may reach out to our Communications Officer, Soci Alphobia. All outgoing statements will be either overthought, delayed by several weeks, or withheld indefinitely. You’ll likely receive a reply within 52 weeks... or not at all.

Thank you for your attention. This concludes the briefing. Please see yourselves out.

[stuckindrafts]

Prompt #001

"You wake up one morning to find a detailed user manual for yourself on your bedside table. What does it say?"

OPERATIONAL INSTRUCTIONS

Please handle the product with care. The facial features on the model may appear stoic, but its sensory input is highly sensitive. A significant amount of processing occurs in the backend, making this a delicate piece of machinery.

WARNINGS & TROUBLESHOOTING

The product may become overstimulated in environments that are:

Loud

Crowded

Extremely hot or cold

This occurs when the sensory input exceeds the product's processing bandwidth. Signs of overstimulation include, but are not limited to:

Delayed audio processing

Disengagement; product may enter ‘silent mode’

Rapid, involuntary extremity movement

Auto-comforting behaviors such as stroking its own hair or pulling facial hair

To reset the product, relocate it to an environment with reduced sensory input. If left unattended, the product will initiate a self-preservation measure known as ‘IRISH GOODBYE’, swiftly removing itself from the triggering environment.

FACTORY SETTINGS

Reverting the product to factory settings is technically possible but not recommended unless you are comfortable with prolonged social discomfort. The reset will erase all installed etiquette protocols and revert the product to a pre-socialized state, previously described as ‘feral’ or ‘mildly alien.’ Side effects may include forgetting small talk functions, blinking at unnatural intervals, and excessive honesty in response to rhetorical questions.

FEATURES UNIQUE TO THIS MODEL

Under the motto: “If it’s not a bug, it might be a feature,” this model offers the following exclusive functions:

A continuous automated feedback loop, ensuring the product overanalyzes all actions and overcorrects future behavior, even when current behavior was completely fine.

A constant hypervigilance mode, automatically simulating worst-case scenarios at all times. However, in an actual emergency, the product overrides its usual anxious state and functions with alarming efficiency.

RETURN POLICY

Returning the product is both accepted and encouraged. However, in most cases, the product will preemptively return itself before the customer can initiate the process.