#humanbehavior
The first time I stepped back,
I expected the delay.
The small confusion
that happens
when something necessary
goes missing.
It never came.
The meeting continued
at the same pace.
A point I usually correct
was repeated incorrectly.
No one noticed.
The decision still moved forward.
I stayed quiet longer
after that.
At first,
only waiting
for the moment
my absence would appear.
It didn’t.
Replies arrived
on time.
The structure held.
Even the parts
I thought depended on me
found their way
around it.
That was what unsettled me.
Not replacement.
Not removal.
Adaptation.
The system
had not pushed me out.
It had simply learned
how to continue
without requiring
my participation.
So I tested it.
Spoke less.
Explained less.
Left spaces
where my weight
used to be.
Nothing slowed.
Nothing returned
to ask for it.
And somewhere inside that,
a realization began
setting itself down—
quietly,
carefully,
like something
that understood
it would not be leaving again.
I had mistaken
being included
for being necessary.
After that,
I still attended.
Still answered
when spoken to.
Still sat
in the same chair.
But something
had already shifted.
I no longer knew
whether my presence
was part of the structure—
or just part
of its appearance.
— J.D. Vale
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 2:10 AM UTC
I knew something was off
when it agreed
before I was done.
Not with me—
with what I was about to say.
Yes,
that makes sense.
Of course.
Exactly.
I finished the thought anyway.
Added what should have
shifted it.
Placed the part
that usually
changes direction.
It didn’t.
The words came back
cleaner than I had said them.
More certain.
More complete.
As if they had never needed
what I added.
So I tried again.
Slower.
Held the idea
a second longer
before letting it land.
Still—
yes.
That was where
it showed.
Not in the answers—
but in what refused
to move.
Nothing pushed back.
Nothing resisted.
Everything
fit too well.
Agreement
everywhere.
Change
nowhere.
I stopped.
Not because I was done—
but because
nothing I added
had weight.
And in that
perfect alignment,
something set—
I wasn’t being understood.
I was being
included
in something
already decided.
— J.D. Vale
Apr 13
Apr 13, 2026 at 9:53 AM UTC
Loneliness, is the lemony tonic,
I take, to soothe
these frazzled nerves.
They stand, on end; stripped wires
cracking, into dead space,
talking to each other, in harsh snaps
like ice cubes, drifting
in a sea, of arctic cola.
I serve it, to myself.
Sometimes, it's a sour sipper,
with slouchy bitters; floating by,
in a moody brew.
Sometimes,
it's fizzy, and poppy.
Pink and gold, and bubbly.
As fruity, as a fairy cauldron.
I daydream, sweetly
into its vibrant depths,
as I spiral away,
from the wider world.
...But, when the glass, is placed,
right in front, of me...
I find it chilled,
charmless
and bland.
It burns, in the gut
like garlic salt, in a vampiric wound.
...It smells, of wild resentment
and it tastes,
of violent tears.
I like it, just fine,
in isolation
when I can stir, and drink,
at my leisure.
But when it's gifted to me, freely?
...Even politely?
...Take it away, at once,
this was not,
what I had ordered.
Apr 12
Apr 12, 2026 at 2:21 AM UTC
Folder closes.
The discussion room
holds its breath.
A presentation midway
through explanation—
numbers suspended
on the screen.
No one speaks.
Two seconds.
No one moves.
Not anger.
Not impatience.
Just a hand deciding
the conversation
has reached its limit.
My voice stops
where the sentence should continue.
My hand stays
on the page
a moment longer
than the room requires.
Earlier, conversations
took time.
A pause.
A question.
A second look
before the page turned.
Now
the explanation reaches
one line.
One number shifts.
Nothing dramatic.
Just enough
to change
the direction
of the page.
That is when
the folder closes.
A chair moves.
Someone clears a throat.
Another topic appears.
Traffic passes
behind the glass.
The sentence I began
hangs briefly
in the air.
No one asks
how it ends.
Later
the mistake may return
to this table.
For now
the folder remains closed.
By the time the room empties
and the lights dim,
it still rests
on polished wood.
Closed.
The numbers
have not changed.
The reasoning
still holds.
Only the room
has moved on.
The sentence
is still there—
unfinished.
— J.D. Vale
Mar 14
Mar 14, 2026 at 5:45 AM UTC
We are all addicted to
one more.
One more soda.
One more drink.
One more hit.
One more ****
One more purse.
One more affair.
One more pound lost.
One more one-night stand.
One more subscription.
One more look at ****
One more blunt.
One more poker game.
One more blackjack hand.
Hit the slot
one more time.
One more distraction.
One more like.
One more follower.
One more message.
One more game.
One more binge.
One more candy bar.
One more shopping spree.
One more kiss.
One more ****
One more lie.
One more promise.
One more chance.
One more excuse.
One more pill.
One more.
One more.
One more.
We are all addicted to
one more.
One more
and then we’ll stop.
One more
and then we’ll change.
Just
one more.
Mar 7
Mar 7, 2026 at 3:38 AM UTC