Date: May 26th, 1997, 9:12 AM
Subject: Vague Alarms
I hopethis Monday is gentler than your weekend was.
(And yes, I mean that both spiritually and in terms of caffeine access.)
But also—what do you mean it was “exhausting”?
That was it.
Five words, no punctuation, and then radio silence.
“Weekend was exhausting.Talk later.”
Do you know how unnerving it is to receive that at midnight on a Sunday after not chatting for almost a week?It’s like the emotional equivalent of a car alarm going off once and then nothing.I don’t know if you went off-grid to wrestle your demons or just did your laundry and fell asleep in a towel.
Please advise.
Or send a weirdly specific song that communicates everything you didn’t say.
You’re good at that.
ChapterSeventy-Two
Private Message | EchoZone Internal Chat
From: DeadStrings
To: StringTheory27
Date: May 26th, 1997, 4:23 PM
Subject: Re: Vague Alarms
It’s all good,of course, I’m okay.
The weekend was exhausting.
I went to a dog shelter on Friday.Cleaned cages, walked the shy ones, talked to the barkers like they were old friends.Almost adopted this droopy-eyed mutt named Horace, but my sponsor talked me down.Said I might be chasing responsibility for the wrong reasons.He’s probably right—still feels like I left someone behind.
Saturday, I drove out to the wild animal sanctuary.Spent most of the day cleaning up the big cat enclosures.There’s this cougar named Lucille—she doesn’t like anyone, but she didn’t growl at me.Small wins.
Sunday was a soup kitchen in the morning.The food line moved slow.Some people just wanted to talk.Later, I tried leading a music session for kids at the shelter.“Tried” is generous.One kid unplugged the amp on purpose every five minutes.Another kept asking if we knew any Nirvana.I didn’t get through to them.But maybe next time.
The whole weekend was a loop of giving pieces of myself away—energy, attention, whatever calm I had left.And weirdly, I didn’t miss any of it.I always thought giving was something you did when you had extra.Turns out, it’s also something you do when trying to refill what’s gone.
I’m not used to doing things that don’t pay back.Not in money.Not in praise.Not even in proof.
But this felt different.Not good, exactly—just necessary.It made me realize that I’ve been feeding the wrong parts of me for too long.
There’s this song:
“Something So Strong” —Crowded House
It’s not about what I did.But it feels like what I felt.That stubborn, sudden spark in your chest that reminds you: hey, maybe there’s something good left in you.Maybe it’s been there all along, just waiting for you to stop self-destructing long enough to notice.
I don’t know.
