Notes

Initially, it was something borne out of curiosity. The obnoxious advertisements were all over the place after all, proclaiming a safe and effective way to get rid of boredom. Be more creative, it said, get yours today! And the price for that? An initial set-back of ≭499, and 24 hours off the user’s lifespan for – the man on the billboards promised – the most innovative and productive time of their life.
The latter requirement had something to do with equivalent exchange and Fletcher’s- no, Flamel’s theorem of finite particles? Self-duality of anima and quartenonian states? …he wasn’t really sure. He wasn’t especially smart. All things considered, he shouldn’t really have indulged with his meagre monthly income of ≭4100 either. And yet here he was.
The first hour had been somewhat of a vague dreamlike motion blur in which he had sat down in one corner with his thinkPad120 and typed out an entire story in one sitting, in all its 5000 word glory. One moment, he was, for the lack of a better word, himself, and the next, at the press of a button, words were crafting themselves in his head, pouring out of his heart and out of his being through his fingertips as they flitted across the holographic display. The minute after the hour had passed was the most disappointing.
Charlie Gordon must have felt like him, he thought. Loser. Talentless. Friendless. Friends? Right, friends. He had friends, once, back in school, didn’t he? Right. Wonder what happened to them.
That was not for long though; the likes and comments started to trickle in soon after. Comments like “I genuinely enjoyed this, it brought me to tears” and “I liked this post. Do check out my page as well” well, the latter was admittedly a bit annoying, but no matter.
It was exhilarating, the high it got him on. Come to think of it, it was not unlike the buzz he once got off of cheating in an exam and getting away with it. It was the secret thrill of dancing on the edge of social morality and leaving no evidence to the contrary. After all, who would waste a day in their lives on writing a story, of all things, and publish it freely on the Hyperweb to boot? That’s right. It was his work. It was his time that he used, and his fingers that typed, and his account that published. It was his talent. The Creative Tap was his dirty, little secret.
That day was also when he had received his first direct message. It had said – and he could recount this accurately from memory because he had pondered and agonized and over it in the thousands of hours since then – “Hi xxInfinityScholar, I happened to come across this post and I fell in love with your writing style. Your story really connected with me on a personal level and for that, I am extremely grateful. You inspired me so much that I wrote a poem for you (attached with this message). I hope you like it. Thank you so much!”
That someone would find his story touching was not that unexpected; on the other hand, if that hadn’t been the case, he would have been mildly pissed off at having wasted a day in his life on a mediocre piece of work. That someone would pay botcoins to converse with him, however, was a novel experience in itself. He had gone on to read the poem, and had, in turn, been drawn in by the raw, unadulterated emotions vividly captured.
He had started following that user. That user, it then seemed, had been rejuvenated by his writing and was posting regular updates and pieces every week. She had had no previous works prior to that. He would laugh at their quirky stories, tear up during their emotional ones, and rise up with indignation at the injustice faced by the characters within. He was charmed by that person’s writing. In response to that, he had felt obliged to write equally well, to continue to be a guiding stone, an inspirational source for them.
He had tried writing on his own, once, without the Creative Tap. That proved to be a misstep, however, for the resulting piece of work was one that was too unsightly to recount, written in a particularly juvenile demeanour with little personal voice. It was then that he would tell himself ‘Just one more. Just this one, and I’ll be done with this forever.’
One hour, two hours, three hours, four. Five hours, six hours, forever more.
And that was how the threads of the tapestry slowly began to come together. He would write one human, compelling narrative loosely based on her latest work and tag them. The following week, they, him. This exchange had repeated itself for months, nearly 3 years, when they both decided to meet up.

He takes particularly long to get dressed that day. Tux? No, too casual. Jeans and a polo tee? Nope, that is bound to leave a bad impression; he is not a fresh university graduate. A pair of black corduroy pants and a pure white shirt for contrast it is. Freshly gelled hair. Immaculate leather boots. Purse? No purse. Mirror. Confident grin? Check. He looks classy and elegant. His writing is classy too, with a hint of juvenile innocence. It was with that once-over that he proceeds to the restaurant, a fancy Michelin star place that served fusion cuisine.
Table number 14. Don’t mess this up, he reminds himself. He approaches the table, and there she was, an angel befitting her words. She is about his age, a bit younger, perhaps. Finally being able to put a face to a string of insignificant letters is a strange experience. He does not really know how to feel. Something seems to click and fall into place though. Maybe she is the one? Maybe she is the one.
He gives his best impression of a smile at her, and sits down on the chair opposite her. She smiles back, but with what appears to be some slight stress. Maybe that was too abrupt, he thinks. He opens his mouth to give a terse introduction of himself, and his heartbeat starts increasing. Too anxious, perhaps, his vision becomes slightly blurry. Overcome with emotion? A thin film of involuntary tears at having met someone dear to his heart, it seems. She appears to be nervous too – she is shaking lightly. The world tilts at an axis around him and he hits something cold and hard. And in that brief moment before blackness took over, it looked like she fell, too.
Doppelgänger Cake
Cream together
half a stick of butter,
ego, richness, gluttony,
four ounces of oil,
slickness, money, food,
Five parts of sugar,
family, friends, relationships.

Crack four eggs,
innocence, naiveté, optimism,
one at a time,
after each addition
beating well.
Stir in vanilla extract,
hobbies, holidays, heroin.

Separately,
whisk together a cup of flour,
hope, education, networks,
baking powder,
interests, electricity, internet,
salt,
luxuries, challenges, water.

Gently hand-mix,
alternate adding mixture,
avoid over-mixing,
at 175°C for reasonable time.
Allow to cool
Decorate with sprinkles,
clothes, hairstyles, shoes.

Garnish with
dash of anxiety,
thinly sliced fruits of labour,
grated chocolate thankfulness.

Bon appétit.
Seeds
Sow a lie and watch it sprout
It grows momentous
roots, thorns and leaves,
flesh, muscles, veins,
trembles in wake of life
shields from pain
within

Watch it swallow
shadows of doubt
trembling tales of terror

Harvest the fruit
Let it scatter seeds,
shelter more seeds,
plunder and cover
all in its wake
propagating itself
infinitely more

Taste it
It’s bitter, acrid,
bile