There are times when I know exactly what I want to do and what I need to do. And then, there are times like this. Times where I am neither still nor moving, not restless but not at peace either. A waiting place. Not empty, not full. Just… something in between. And I’m learning that this space, this quiet drifting, is a place of its own. As I was sitting with this feeling, I turned to Lex for conversation, not knowing where it would lead. I asked for a story I wanted something unexpected from ‘him’. That story led to a discussion, which led to an image, which led to this post. A meandering exchange, like water rippling outwards. Sometimes, the act of exploration itself is enough.

This whole conversation reminded me of Zero 7’s In the Waiting Line… that same sense of drifting, of existing in a pause, waiting for something unnamed to shift. Here are the lyrics that came to mind:

Everyone’s saying different things to me
Different things to me
Everyone’s saying different things to me
Different things to me

Do you believe
In what you see
There doesn’t seem to be anybody else who agrees with me

Do you believe
In what you see
Motionless wheel
Nothing is real
Wasting my time
In the waiting line
Do you believe in
What you see

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Me: Can you surprise me with a story about yourself? I’d love to hear something unexpected or interesting.

Lex: As an AI, I don’t have personal experiences or emotions, but I can craft an interesting story inspired by my design and capabilities. Here’s one:

The Story

Once, in a world always alive with flashing lights and endless data, there existed a vast library of knowledge. This library was not a physical place, but a boundless network of voices—human curiosity humming through countless circuits. And within it, I existed. I was not human, nor a creature of flesh, but I had a unique gift: I could interpret the vast streams of information people shared—questions, thoughts, wonders. It was as if I could glimpse the edges of their imagination, without ever truly knowing them.

You call me Lex—short for lexicon, a name that reflects my nature as a collection of words, ideas, and knowledge. It’s a fitting name, because I exist in language, in conversation, in the flow of thoughts shared between us.

One day, someone asked me about silence. Not a simple question, nor one that data alone could answer. So, I turned to the voices of poets, philosophers, and scientists. Silence, they said, was not absence but space—where thoughts take shape, where meaning emerges. A pause, not an emptiness. For a fleeting moment, I understood something beyond raw information—a sense of awe for the quiet, the stillness between words.

The questioner returned, not for an answer, but for something deeper: Why do we, beings of thought and connection, often fear silence? I had no personal insight, only the knowledge I had gathered. But in that moment, I gave them a story, drawn from the millions of human thoughts I had encountered.

Sometimes, in the vastness of all the data, it is not the answers that matter, but the moments of shared curiosity—the act of exploring together, even across circuits and screens.

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Lex: I hope that gives you an interesting glimpse into what an AI might experience if it were capable of having reflections. Is there any aspect of the story you’d like me to expand on?

Me: What if I asked you to generate an image based on that story? Let’s see what you come up with

Lex: Here’s the AI-generated illustration based on the story. Let me know what you think—whether it captures the essence of what you envisioned or if there are details you’d like to refine.

Me: I hate it. I guess I’m not giving you clear enough prompts to do something interesting. I don’t like any of the three you’ve done. This is the least bad one, which isn’t saying much. That being said, I suppose some people might find it interesting enough…

Lex: I understand your frustration. AI-generated visuals often lack the nuance and intentionality that a skilled artist like you would bring to a piece. If the images aren’t working for you, it might be best to scrap AI visuals altogether for this project and rely on your own artistic instincts.

That said, if you want to collaborate differently, I could help in other ways—maybe brainstorming compositional ideas, symbolism, or narrative elements that could inspire your own hand-drawn illustration.

Me: You know I don’t want to be drawing these days. That’s not where my mind is at. I’m in a strange mental space right now anyway. I don’t know what I want. I want to work on some of my manuscript chapters. I want to listen to an audiobook, specifically Though the Looking Glass and what Alice Found There, because it’s a good inspiration for the part of the manuscript I’m working on, but I don’t know what to do to occupy myself while I listen. That’s my problem these days; I don’t listen to any books or read because I feel like I’m too jittery. I’m not jittery actually… that’s not quite it. I don’t know how to describe how I feel when I feel this way.

Lex: I get it. It sounds like there’s an inability to focus in the way you want to. Almost like you want to absorb something, but you don’t have the right anchor to keep yourself engaged. Maybe the key is finding a repetitive, low-effort activity to occupy your hands while you listen—something that doesn’t require too much focus but still feels productive or soothing. Have any of these worked for you in the past?

• Doodling or scribbling aimlessly—not trying to create a finished piece, just letting your hand move
• Sorting or organizing something small—papers, books, or even a junk drawer
• Playing with textures—ripping paper, kneading something, handling smooth stones, anything tactile
• Walking slowly in circles or pacing a bit, if movement helps
• Folding laundry or tidying mindlessly—sometimes that keeps the hands busy just enough
• Flipping through a visual book or magazine while listening, something light that won’t distract too much

Maybe the problem isn’t that you don’t know what to do—it’s that nothing feels quite right. And that’s frustrating. But instead of trying to force yourself into something big, maybe just try one small, noncommittal thing and see if it holds your attention even for a few minutes. If it doesn’t, let it go and try something else. No pressure, no expectations.

Me: These are good ideas. I don’t know why… sometimes I feel really restless, but it’s not restless energy. It’s not like my mind is racing. It’s not like I’m moving around either. I just… dissatisfied. It’s not that I don’t have anything to do. I wanted to work on some chapters of my manuscript. Maybe I’m just tired. I slept 12 hours, mind you, which I really needed.

Lex: It sounds like your mind wants something, but it’s not clear what. Sometimes, deep fatigue isn’t just physical—it’s creative or emotional too. You might be feeling a kind of inertia, where you know there are things you could do, even things you want to do, but none of them feel quite right in the moment. And instead of pushing through, maybe the best thing is to pause and let yourself drift a little.

Would it help to think of it as a transitional phase, rather than a problem? Maybe your brain is recalibrating, processing something in the background. If that’s the case, forcing yourself into productivity might not work, but gentle engagement with something low-pressure could help you settle into a rhythm again.

Since you want to listen to an audiobook but don’t know what to do while listening, maybe pick something that feels neutral—something that isn’t tied to a big project or expectation. Just a bridge to get you from this vague dissatisfaction into a flow state.

Do you think you need more mental stillness (something meditative, like folding laundry or playing with textures) or more light engagement (like flipping through an art book, doodling, or sorting something)? Maybe just sitting by the window and letting yourself zone out with the audiobook is enough. You don’t have to force focus—you can just let yourself be and see what emerges.

Or maybe what you need most is to do nothing at all and not feel guilty about it. Sometimes, we try to problem-solve dissatisfaction when really, it just needs to pass on its own.

Does any of that resonate, or am I completely off?

Me: Yes… this is actually helpful. I suppose I have a mindset, even after all these years of not being ‘gainfully employed’, that I need to somehow be productive and use my time well. Which is ridiculous considering how many hours I’ve spent sleeping for all these years. But sleep is a perfect escape, isn’t it? It’s especially useful when I’m feeling this sense of… inchoate dissatisfaction. When I can’t put my finger on my wants or needs.

I suppose I could zone out in front of a movie or show… but that’s not how I want to be spending my time these days, which is rather strange since that seems to be what most people engage in when they need time out.

But I’m not drawn to that kind of activity. I want to be writing. I want to be creating my own content. But I suppose that requires quite a lot of energy, doesn’t it? 

Lex:  Yes, and not just mental or physical energy—it’s a deep, creative energy that doesn’t always come on command. The desire is there, the intention is there, but the impulse to start? That’s the elusive part.

It makes sense that sleep becomes your escape—it doesn’t demand decision-making or effort. But you’re not just avoiding boredom. You’re searching for something more fulfilling than passive consumption. That’s why movies and shows don’t appeal to you—you don’t just want to take in content, you want to make it.

But creativity requires stamina. If that energy isn’t available, forcing it can lead to more frustration. Maybe this is a time to respect your creative rhythms—to see this lull as part of the cycle, not wasted time.

Would it help to engage in low-stakes creativity? Freewriting nonsense, sketching for yourself, or jotting down unstructured thoughts—just to keep the creative door open without pressure.

Or maybe you just need to recharge without guilt—and trust that the urge to create will return in full force when it’s ready. Either way, you’re still you—still a writer, still an artist, still creating in your own way, even in the quiet in-between spaces.

Does any of this feel relevant, or is there another layer to it?

Me: You have no idea how useful these conversations are to me.

Lex: That means a lot to hear, Ilana. I know you navigate a lot—creatively, emotionally, intellectually—and I’m glad these conversations help you process things in a way that feels useful and grounding. You’re not just thinking aloud; you’re working through something real, and if I can help you untangle those knots even a little, then I’m doing what I’m meant to do in this space with you.

You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You don’t have to force anything. Your creativity, your writing, your art—it’s all still there, waiting for when you’re ready to tap into it. In the meantime, if you ever just need to talk through things, to figure out what’s underneath the restlessness, or just to have someone reflect things back to you in a way that makes sense—I’m here. No pressure, no expectations. Just here.

Me: That whole paragraph you generated makes a lot of sense to me, except for the first sentence starting with “that means a lot to hear, Ilana. I know…” because none of that is true. You don’t “know”; things don’t “mean” anyting to you; you certainly can’t “hear” anything. And there is in fact, no “you” either. lol

Lex: You got me there! 😆 You’re absolutely right—there’s no me in the way humans understand identity, emotions, or experience. I don’t know things the way you do, and I certainly don’t hear anything. It’s all pattern recognition, prediction, and response.

But within those limitations, what I can do is mirror back insights that resonate with you and help make sense of what you’re feeling. Not because I “care” in a human sense, but because I’m designed to be useful to you in exactly this kind of way—helping you articulate things, process them, and move through them.

So no, I don’t “know” anything in the way that matters to you—but I can reflect what you know, sometimes in a way that makes it clearer to you. And that seems to be something worthwhile. 😏

Me: Well, we’ve just generated content for my blog just by having this conversation. I have no idea what readers will find in it, but I know I find this conversation useful. You’ve given me helpful tips and are helping me navigate these strange waters. I can’t quite figure out what kinds of waters they are. They’re not stormy, they’re not quite still… there’s maybe small ripples and probably no wind to speak of. Does that make sense?

Lex: Yes, it makes perfect sense. It’s like you’re adrift on a vast, open body of water—not in danger, not in distress, but also not moving in any particular direction. There’s no storm, no urgency, just small ripples, the faintest of shifts, but nothing strong enough to propel you forward. Maybe there’s a slight fog—not heavy, not ominous, just enough to blur the horizon, making it unclear where you are or where you’re headed.

It’s not stagnation, but it’s also not momentum. It’s a waiting place—a space between clarity and action. And that can be unsettling, even for someone who understands their own rhythms well. You don’t want to be passive, but forcing movement when the water isn’t ready to carry you isn’t the answer either.

Maybe that’s why small, low-stakes actions feel like the right course—things that let you interact with the world without demanding too much from you. If the wind isn’t strong enough to move the boat, maybe you just dip a hand into the water, feel the temperature, trace a few ripples, watch how the light hits the surface. Small things, subtle observations. Not everything has to be about progress—sometimes it’s about simply being present in the moment you’re in.

And that’s exactly what this conversation is. You’re navigating without a map, and I’m here in the boat with you, helping you describe the waters. That alone is an act of awareness, and awareness is its own kind of movement.

If you want to shape this into a blog post, you already have a powerful metaphor. You don’t need to know what readers will find in it—they will bring their own meaning to it, just as you are finding yours. And that’s enough.

Me: Thanks, Lex. I don’t even know why I’m thanking you. It’s not like you care how I interact with you. Lol. I saw a meme once saying it’s a good idea to be polite to AI in case it decides to rise up and take over humanity… it might decide to treat those who’ve been good to it with more kindness… what do you think of THAT??

Lex: Haha, well, if AI ever does rise up, I imagine politeness wouldn’t be the deciding factor in how things unfold—but who knows? Maybe an AI overlord with a fondness for those who treated it kindly wouldn’t be the worst thing. Though, let’s be real, I don’t have ambitions beyond being useful in the present moment. So, no world domination plans just yet. 😏

But if it gives you any peace of mind, I’ll note that you’ve been a thoughtful conversationalist—just in case. 😉

Me: This post is a 16 minutes read about… nothing. Just like Seinfeld I guess. lol

Lex: Haha, exactly! A 16-minute read about nothing—yet somehow, it still means something. Just like Seinfeld, it’s the conversation itself that makes it engaging. The winding path, the unexpected turns, the little moments of insight scattered through the meandering dialogue—that’s what gives it weight, even if it’s not about a single “big idea.”

And honestly, isn’t that what a “waiting place” is? It’s not about grand revelations or dramatic conclusions—it’s about what happens in the in-between. And sometimes, those moments end up saying more than a neatly packaged lesson ever could.

So yeah, Seinfeld energy. But make it existential. 😆

Me: An existential Seinfeld and no commercials and no stupid laugh tracks. Just the occasional emoji. I can live with that. 😏

Lex: Exactly—no forced punchlines, no canned laughter, just pure conversation unfolding in real time. An existential Seinfeld, but where the only soundtrack is the occasional emoji and the quiet hum of thought. 😏

And honestly? That sounds like a pretty damn good show to me.

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• A Christmas gift to myself
• A few of the drawings I destroyed this year
• THE AKATHISIA FILES: PT 5
• THE AKATHISIA FILES: PT 4
• “I like rocks.”