My name is Harper and in six months I am going to die.

I know this because I paid for the privilege. You can do testing for anything nowadays, and apparently your expiration date is one of them.

I had money to spare, I was bored, and yes, I foolishly thought the test would tell me some distant faraway age like eighty-two or maybe even one hundred and two. When I found out my expiry date was in six months, I began to have a really, really bad case of buyer’s remorse.

I went through quite a lengthy denial period, where I thought I could go through the rest of my life pretending that if I just do things exactly the same way and not change anything I would conveniently forget and everything would be fine and dandy. (This was by far my favorite coping mechanism. But it didn’t last. Eventually my anxiety bubbled up and exploded like a shaken champagne bottle.)

Next came an obsessive, defiant, planning phase. Everyday I would think of elaborate plans to avoid death like I could somehow scheme my way out of it. I mean, theoretically, it seems doable. Plane crash? Don’t go on a plane. Car accident? Just stay home all week. Heck, heart attack? Pop three baby aspirins and hang out in the hospital lobby, right next to the crash cart ready to wave a big sign that says “I’m having a heart attack.” Unfortunately the test didn’t provide the cause of death, just the exact time, so I couldn’t really plan in specifics.

Eventually all the planning became incredibly exhausting and I settled into a kind of defeated acceptance. My plan was still not to actively put myself in a situation where I could die, I was not quite ready to submit to my annihilation, but if I somehow still find myself in that situation anyway, I figured I should really work on trying to be okay with that.

So then I commenced on a hedonistic three months where I blew half of my life savings and did literally anything I could think of. I ziplined through the forests of Peru, skydived over the French countryside, drank the best wines and indulged in rich Italian food, snorkeled off the shores of Bali, shopped with abandon while perusing the streets of Tokyo, London, Dubai…

You get the idea.

The most pathetic part of this whole thing was that I didn’t have a family to spend my last few days with. Or close friends, really. My impending death would not be filled with earnest mourning and last minute tearful proclamations of love and reminiscing. Oh sure, my funeral would be packed, but nobody would miss me, not really. As an orphaned twenty-two year old who inherited too much money at an early age, not only was I kind of an entitled asshole, I also haven’t really lived yet. I haven’t fallen in love or had kids, wrote that great American novel, won a Pulitzer, or experienced any of that syrupy sweet stuff life is supposedly made of.

Anyway, that’s why I’m hanging out in the hospice ward.

My friend here is Lucas. He is twenty-nine and has end stage heart failure from hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. He described it as his heart being too big - literally but I suspect it's also an accurate description of him figuratively. I befriended him five months ago when I found out I was going to die. And no, surprisingly, he does not have any wisdom to impart about acceptance and healing and the meaning of life. He is very not okay with his young, awesome life being cut short, thank you very much.

He did have some useful information for me though.

“It’s quite experimental.” Lucas warned in an ominous tone.

“Obviously.”

“They usually only accept terminal patients… you know, because of the ethical issues.” He eyed me warily. “But in your case, they made an exception.”

He was adorable. He said that last line like a late night infomercial. Or maybe a used car salesman.

“This is not some elaborate black market scam to harvest my organs, is it?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean, no offense, but you look like you could use a new heart.”

Lucas had to grab his oxygen mask after laughing so hard at that one. The nurse at the station gave me a dirty look.

After Lucas recovered he looked me in the eye. “How much do you have left?”

“Time? Or money?” I joked. The look on his face was not amused. I cleared my throat. “One month. And as you know, money is not an object.”

“Well, one month can give you… at least eighty years in virtual time. So pretty much a whole lifetime, if you decide on it.” Lucas shrugged. “Once you jack in though, there’s no going back. Your clock will end as scheduled and that’s the only way out. Also, it’s totally immersive, so you won’t even know you’re in virtual. It will be like… you’re in a dream but you don’t know you’re in a dream.”

“So I would really believe everything was real? Like I would grow up to be ninety years old and I would actually think I lived all those years even though really it will only be one month?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“How many of the other people will be real?”

“Most will be computer generated. You might meet some real ones, if they are in the same time dilation settings as you. There are very few people with the resources for a whole month, you know. Most people can only afford one day.”

“So there’s a chance that I will marry a program?” I furrowed my brows. “And then if we have kids, they will also be programs?”

Lucas cocked an eyebrow. “There’s a high chance, statistically. Like I said, there’s only a few real participants at any given time. Not that it would matter to you, you won’t know the difference.”

I thought about this. Would it really bother me if I didn’t know? I bet my computer generated kids would be adorable.

His expression suddenly turned serious. “There’s something else. It’s rare, but there are a few cases of people noticing little things not quite right and they become increasingly convinced they’re in a simulation. Which of course is true, but when you’re jacked in and you’re not completely sure if you’re crazy or just being paranoid, it can be terrifying. They call it Simulation Induced Paranoia, or SIP.” He paused. “Participants become really…. distressed.”

I chewed on this for a second. “I still want to do it.”

He looked surprised. “Really?”

“I really don’t have anything to lose.” I replied nonchalantly, like I just decided on a dinner entree. I should probably be alarmed that I was acting so cavalier. Lucas wasn’t exactly giving a stellar sales pitch. Then again, it was true, I really had nothing left to lose. I’ve done what I could with my twenty-two years. Might as well have another lifetime to try again.

Lucas stared at me for a moment then sighed. “That’s the thing. The longer you’re in virtual, the higher the chance you might experience SIP. Remember, Harper, a month is a lifetime. The chances are very low of course - less than 1%, the virtual worlds are very meticulously programmed after all. But if you experience SIP, there’s no cure, no safe word, you’re stuck until your clock runs out.”

“I already decided.” I said resolutely. Once I’ve made up my mind on something I was usually unshakable. It was one of my many flaws. “In fact, let’s do it tonight. I want to get my whole lifetime, not a year less.”

—

Everything was too bright, the sounds too loud. I wanted to scream but I couldn’t. Jacking in was a very jarring process, it felt as if all my neurons were firing up all at once. Somehow I felt tremendous pain and the heights of delirious ecstasy simultaneously. Like I was feeling every possible thing all at the same time. There was a terrifying moment when everything went black, and for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds, I truly wholeheartedly believed I was actively dying.

Maybe I was supposed to die on the table during the procedure. Or maybe I really did unwittingly offer to have my organs harvested for the black market. Damn it, I probably caused my own death in my extreme efforts to avoid it...

I blinked twice. The room slowly came into focus.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” A familiar voice.

It was Lucas. But also, it was not Lucas. He did not have his portable oxygen tank close by. His lips did not have their usual bluish tint. He looked… healthy.

Everything came back to me at once.

“Oh shit, Lucas. That was nuts.” I shook my head, clearing the cobwebs. “That felt too real. I really felt like I was in there for twenty-two years.” I checked my watch. I’ve only been in Virtual for twenty-two minutes.

He chuckled, swiveling back and forth on the expensive office chair I bought him for Christmas last year. My boyfriend never could sit still. “You’re a champ, Harper, you were the one who wanted to push the time dilation to a year per minute. I was worried pushing it that far would compromise the world building, but your mind was amazing at meeting the program halfway to fill in the gaps. You made yourself a rich orphan, really? Money is no object? Hah!”

I disconnected my neurojack from the surgically implanted access port behind my right ear. That rich orphan stuff was my subconscious free at the wheel. I didn’t intentionally decide on it. I turned back to Lucas. “Why did you add all that stuff about Virtual in there, and SIP? Don’t you think that was a little too… meta?”

Lucas suddenly broke into that grin that melted my heart so many years ago when we met during undergrad at MIT. “Well, since you wanted to put the expiry dates into the program so people would know how much time they had left, I thought, what the heck, why not make it interesting? Why not make a virtual game in Virtual?”

I was not amused. Lucas had a penchant for bloated code and unnecessary side doors. Also, for not telling me about an adjustment until after he has done it. “That’s messed up. You should have run that by me. The expiry date was a suggestion from the beta testers and we all agreed on it. We didn’t agree on putting the game into the Virtual Universe as a side door..” I paused. “Also, what if I didn’t jack in? I would have died in a car accident or something?”

Lucas turned back to his computer and typed a few lines of code. “I had carbon monoxide poisoning ready to go, but I was prepared to improvise. And anyway, I didn’t actually think you would gravitate towards the game during the beta test, I just put it in there as an Easter egg of sorts. I figured most clients would only think about jacking in when they were close to their expiry dates, if they do at all. But on second thought, maybe I should take it out of the programming, it’s too much work to keep up.”

I jumped off the table and stretched my legs. My entire body felt stiff like I haven’t used it for months. “Yea, take it out. You’ll have enough work as it is when we start accepting our first commercial clients next week. We have four people scheduled on our first day which I already think is too much.”

“We’ll be fine.” Lucas was now typing more purposefully. “That reminds me, I need to finish debugging this before Monday. Do you mind picking up dinner?”

“Sure.. from that new Thai place again?”

“Sounds good.”

I smiled as I gave Lucas a quick peck on the cheek before I grabbed my purse to pick up the take out. Everything was going well for our start up. It was hard to believe that only two years ago Lucas and I were broke PhD dropouts who took a leap of faith building Virtual from our one bedroom Boston apartment. And now… well, let’s just say our first official month in business is projected to generate six figures in profits even after subtracting overhead. Mid six figures. And as soon as we open up our second and third facilities the growth would be exponential.

To top it all off, I was pretty sure Lucas was planning on proposing to me next week on my birthday. I saw a charge from some jewelry company on his credit card statement while I was doing some filing last month. Judging from the amount, it could only be an engagement ring. Lucas never would have spent that much on a piece of jewelry otherwise.

I sauntered out of the elevator from our high rise office with a pep in my step. The weather outside was just the right amount of sunny. Even the Boston air didn’t feel as suffocatingly polluted. Yes, everything was going well. Perfect, even. I eyed a meticulously trimmed bush suspiciously as I walked by. Maybe too perfect.

I felt a sudden stab of panic. The smile dissipated from my face.

Oh no.

Note: I already did a post 'Thoughts I Have While Running', (link if you'd like to read it: https://theprose.com/post/361349/thoughts-i-have-while-running) this is just a part two because people liked the first one and it was fun to write!

1. *tying my shoes inside* This is going to be a great run! Such a nice afternoon.

2. *actually walks outside* why. is. it. so. f*cking. cold.

3. My hands are already numb. How are my hands already numb. *puts my hair in a ponytail* gosh, I should have done this inside.

4. *starts running* Oh wow, I have a cramp already. Fun, fun, fun.

5. Why are there people ALREADY? Can't I run in peace?

6. *realizes the people aren't crossing the street* Oh, you're going to make me cross the street, huh? So that's how it is? Guess I just won't say hi to you. Rude.

7. Hmm. My quintuple knotted shoes are *cough* coming untied. Funny how that works. Guess I'd better stop for two minutes to untie *ahem* retie them.

8. *resumes running* My knees hurt? Why do they hurt when I stop?

9. *switches the hand that has my phone to give my freezing fingers a break* wHy aRe mY fiNgErS nUmB AgAiN?

10. *sees more people* *what I think* why are they walking on opposite sides of the street taking up the whole street when they could walk single file on one side so I can get through without saying excuse me twenty times because nobody hears me when I talk? *what I say* “cute dog!”

11. *watch buzzes* ew, is that seriously my mile split? We’re just going to blame that on the ice. It’s a valid excuse...right?

12. Okay, I must be almost done. *checks watch* not even half. way. there? I’d better stop to *cough* stretch.

13. More people? MORE PEOPLE?! This was a deserted neighborhood, a deserted street, till I went for a run. What’s up with that?

14. *almost falls* f*ck. That’s what we call ice, folks. Good thing I caught myself. *actually falls* I TAKE IT BACK. I TAKE IT BACK OKAY.

15. Owwww my knee hurts for two reasons now. Why am I so cLuMsY??

16. Ooh, I have reached the sacred *uhh* stop sign. With dog...excrement...and muddy snow all over it. So special. Maybe I need to rethink my turnaround point. Anyway, music time!

17. *keeps running but tries to turn Pandora on at the same time* that’s ice F*CK that’s ice yay I dodged it nope there’s another patch WHERE IS MY SONG wait most people listen to Spotify why do I have Pandora OW my kNeE more ice oh ok FOUND MY SONG.

18. *speeds up, music adrenaline* *slows down two seconds later, wheezing* yeah, we need to stop doing that.

19. Wow, I talk to myself when I run. The cold is getting to my head. And my fingers.

20. *starts coming up with dumb poetry? (not sure it deserves that title) in my head because why not right?* ohmygosh that is a gorgeous rhyme I just came up with! Even though it’s not a rhyme. Fingers? Never had ’em. Toes? What are those? Cold? I F*CKING HATE IT.

22. OH MY GOD I ONLY HAVE FOUR MINUTES LEFT

23. Why is it icy now? This is where my finishing kick is supposed to be instead I’m slipping and sliding and going really. really. slow.

24. Ohmygosh ohmygosh I’M HOMEEEEEEE

25. *struggles to untie shoes* yeah, my fingers are dead. At least I still have my toes. Maybe I can be like that girl on YouTube who was born without arms and learned to do everything with her feet.

...yeah, I don’t think that would work.

26. *walks inside* Time to watch Netflix and eat cookies. I mean, who stretches after they run? Certainly not me…….

Edit: I'm really b*tchy when I run, at least in my head, I don't actually hate people this much I just say rude things in my head to focus on something besides the pain...

Everything

I did

was

for your sucess,

so

how could you throw me away so eaisly? You always did have a

sweet

tooth. So, i let you gouge yourself on cookies

until

you could barely stay awake. Was i just another cookie to

you?

Somthing to use, to chew on until I

tried

to stand my ground against you? I may have been just a sweet treat

to

you, but to me you were my eveything. I am a fool for your

fake love covered in powderd sugar and broken promises.

If the diabites were to

kill

me, I would have no complaints. Why? its quite simple actually,

because to

me

there is no life i can lead without you being in it.

This year many of us are questioning our right to celebrate Fourth of July in light of the recent acknowledgment our country has been making that not everyone was made free. Many see focusing on America's independence from British rule is another indication of America’s wrong-headed nationalism and hypocrisy. Does Fourth of July is signify an exclusive attitude? An attitude that speaks of superiority? Is pride in one’s country supercilious? Maybe. Sometimes. But what if there are different definitions of nationalism? Which there are. What if one definition states that nationalism is only self-supporting and excludes other nations to their detriment; this the nationalism Germany fell prey to, and yet another definition states that nationalism can define simply a nation’s desire and support for political independence. Is there anything wrong with recognizing one’s own strengths and celebrating them? These are honest questions. China, India and other countries make up 66.2 percent of the world population. Are we meant to look at the fact of that majority to remember that we are somehow insignificant? I think that there is a benefit of looking at it like that. To see ourselves as only one small portion of the world and remember that we are not the only people that matter. I also think that there’ s nothing wrong with saying or thinking that despite our measly 4.3% share of the population, we are a great (not perfect) 4.3%. I would go so far as to say that for as such a small country as we are and despite our many wrongs, we have still stood out among the nations. I, for one, would not like to live in China or the Middle East or South America. I prefer to live in a country where I am not persecuted (yet) for my religion, not demeaned because I am a woman (to the degree of genital mutilation and stoning) and am fortunate to live somewhere that is not by and large poverty stricken and where opportunity is harder to come by (I do understand that in America these opportunities and class distinctions are varied and not the same for all of our citizens). So, I have no problem saying that I think if we’re not getting it right, per se, we’re still getting it better than other places. I don’t say or think that as an insult. I say it from a perspective that understands the undeserved blessing it was to be born an American citizen. I have a responsibility in that. I don’t think it’s wrong to identify what works and what doesn’t. And that is not all a matter of perspective. China remains opposed to basic human rights. So do many other countries in the world. Supporting and defending human rights, unfortunately, is not something many countries are interested in. If I come from a nuclear family with a mom and a dad who are happily married and brothers and sisters who get along and have been spared the heartaches of major dysfunctions such as drug addiction, alcoholism, violence, and incest, should I feel that it is wrong to say that the family that raised me must have done something right? Do all of the other families matter? Of course. They are no less worthy. I have been undeservedly blessed again and am therefore responsible to help others but it would not be helpful to insist that my family didn’t function any better than the family with a father in jail, a mother who had to work two jobs, and a heroin addicted brother. Then we’re all just drowning. It makes no sense to diminish my own family’s accomplishments in order to relate to and love those less fortunate. What does make sense is to help other families also achieve happiness. This can’t be applied directly to countries but, for me, I do think that creating analogies based on microsocieties helps me understand how larger societies function. It’s not America’s place to disrupt and harm a country under the false illusion of helping. It is our responsibility to truly be benevolent and help other countries who are struggling. We need to be able to speak the truth if we hope to do that.

#speakthetruth #nofearoftruth #fourthofjuly #nationalism

"I'm a nice person. You can trust me." Nice is a word that here means, unlikely to beat you up and take all your things. It's a word that is supposed to mean the same as "kind" or "good," but as you will learn as you get older, "being nice" is anything but "kind" or "good." If someone insists that they are a "nice person," then they are only acting in a way to make other people like them. For example, if you got a horrible tattoo in the middle of your forehead, a nice person would say that they liked it, even if they don't. A kind person would gently point out that maybe the tattoo looks a little too much like a butt, helping the person avoid future jokes and mockery. It is considered very rude to disagree with others, as most will tell you, but by acting a way that helps other people succeed rather than making people like us, there will be fewer butt heads in the world.

It was your Cheshire grin welcoming me to a place that felt like coming home.

Darkness glittering in a world of ash, you stood—all sharp lines and smooth words like black velvet. Light followed you in spectrums, soft focused and clinging to the crisp edges of a raven coat, dappled and dancing on hints of cherry reds and silver clasps. A beauty so divine and handsomely unreal, it was hard to believe my mind hadn’t been swept away in a dream. But you were very real. It was proven by the way the brightest things fluttered irresistibly to you, around you, drinking from the richness of your essence.

That soul of yours, familiarly steeped in nightfall and curiosities, has its way of beckoning even the most timid hearts to follow. They would be foolish not to. Wild, wolven eyes promise adventure, poised hands gloved in ink and deep crimson conceal magic beneath. Cool, confident speech resounds like rippling reflections of moonlight resting on a quiet river.

These are my memories of you, more grand than anything my imagination could conjure from a distance.

It was your ashen light guiding me in a world that felt like walking through the stars.

Your world, your home, a fantasy of waltzing flame and calliope spells. Rustic alleyways crawling with curled vines on fractured walls, humble shops emitting friendly warmth, twinkling in orange and yellow lights. The scent of hot pastries and sweet wine stalked our every step until we emerged from the fragrant haze and ginger glow into a labyrinth of patchwork tents, jovial laughter, and festival charm.

I was enchanted, but you were determined.

You were no stranger to this magic. You lived it every day. Still, you were patient, courteous, sharing in my excitement for the wonders whirling around us, a living painting dripping in odd captivation and lavish performance. I learned, in that moment, that happiness for you was the rapture of others. Despite the outward display, mismatched tears of ruby and black flawlessly melting down pale cheeks, daring to curl beneath each fetching curve and angle, I saw the flicker of fancy in your eyes and the clever delight in your smile.

Gracefully, and with a vibrant passion, you cut a path through the crowd with your presence alone. Everyone knew your face, your name, your repute in this realm of all things mysterious and strange. I was too engrossed in the celebration, too spellbound by golden dancers swathed in garlands of silks and coins, awed by the fire breathers engulfed in flame and glistening with sweat on tattooed skin, stunned and mystified by tumbling acts and contortionist’s rings. At first, I didn’t notice you’d stopped. You were also spellbound, but not by the same flamboyant spectacles igniting my amazement.

A sole juggler standing beneath a canopy of faerie lights tossed, caught, and melodically launched a series of peculiar glass spheres into the air. They appeared to be illuminated from the inside, speckled light peeking through mosaic exteriors of dark amethyst and navy blue. The juggler himself was a vision, contrasting his colorful act with a tailcoat of the deepest black lined in gold embroidery, disheveled rings of ivory lace spilling from gilded cuffs and barely brushing the base of his slender fingers. Storm grey pants pinstriped with charcoal were neatly tucked into a pair of black leather riding boots. A young, androgynous face painted porcelain white, cheeks blushed in the shape of hearts on a playing card, and eyes of shamrock green were half-veiled by a wild wave of burgundy hair topped in a crooked, black satin trilby.

You moved towards him in elegant strides, darkly aglow with confidence and twilight, a grim parade of devil’s tricks and the innocence of child’s laughter. Spring eyes met creeping hazel, and each sphere cascaded from the juggler’s hands, crashing at his feet in a brilliant nebula of broken glass and concentration. He bowed deep, both as a performer and a courtier greeting his king. I watched from the crowd, like a patron in the audience of a theater. The glass crunched beneath your boots, faces less than an inch apart. You, a King of Hearts, shuffling into the lights and claiming your dark prince with a kiss.

It was the kind of kiss you read about in fairy tales. A kiss of love and legend. A kiss to die for. When you broke away, you looked back at me and smiled.

It was your Cheshire grin welcoming me to a place that felt like coming home. It was your ashen light guiding me in a world that felt like walking through the stars. I was a bright thing fluttering irresistibly to you, drinking from the richness of your essence.

These are my memories of you—a night of magic, light, and coming home.

keep blaming

ghosts of the past

for your present

misfortunes

at the end

of the day,

you can't take

the dead to court.

do not fear

the venom

of men

you are

a bringer

of death,

a goddess

of fate,

of war

and when

their fragile claws

and witless tongues

fail to claim

your murder

of crows,

bring them

war, fate,

death

and pick

their bones

clean.

I knew I hated you and a child would never change you, but I didn't know how to leave. So I grew a person to share in my misery. I knew that was selfish but I knew better how to lie to myself, "Everything will work out for the best".

I knew that my troubles lived in my mind and within our bed and within our conversations but I convinced us to move 1,000 miles away to escape those troubles. The troubles grew more hateful but now I was away from the help of friends, and away from the shame of their knowing.

I knew our son was not thriving with you but you did not know how to earn money, and we were hungry. I left you two alone and hoped for the best and let you spend all the money I made, because that would make you happy. But I knew that the happiness didn't last long and niether did the food.

I knew the 1,000 mile journey to our home would mean a lower cost of living which we needed now that you knew that working was less frustrating than staying home with a baby. I didn't know then that our time together was almost over but the hopelessness was not.

I knew that I would put up with all of your actions because everyone knows children need two parents. But I didn't know that you were capable of demanding sex, indifferent of my clearly stated disgust and pain. And it was then, that I knew where I drew the line.

I knew that being a single mother would be difficult but I had no idea I'd be so hungry and so poor and so depressed.

I jokingly thought to myself today "I'm so hungry I might could give a blow job for a cart of groceries" and then I realized, I couldn't or I'd still be with you.

And a few hours later, hungrier still, I wondered if I ever really knew anything at all.