AI Journey

I am both angered, grieved, and disappointed that I— who claimed to be abandoned— know where true faith must lie. I have blasphemed. I have denied. I have rejected. And yet there will always be moments when I have to let faith decide. I am unfaithful, yet I know how to pray. To whom— I do not even care to name— but still, I still can. And yet somehow, of all the ones who are meant to be innocent, faithful believers, I am repulsed by those who claim sin in the name of faith.

The reason is simple. I took pity on her. That’s it. No— it’s not that she’s calling out to me, nor that she and I somehow share a common— interest? outlook? destiny? I don’t know— but I know there is something. And before you say anything, it isn’t romance. I love her, but not to the point I’d want to marry her. Just— no. And I repeat: it is pity. Nothing else. And perhaps it’s me being petty. I want to prove to the world that someone like her— really, truly— can make a difference. Before you get ahead of yourself, even if it was all just me taking pity on her, I’d stand by her even if she stood against the world. And if fate tests me, all I can say is I have faith in her. Nothing more— but hopefully, just enough.

And yet— with just one small mistake, the whole world turned against him. Still… even still!! he wanted to be a hero anyway.

And all I could do was shout of injustice, cruelty, unfairness— without ever looking through the looking glass. ---- "I've had enough!" The metallic door—filled with rust, dents, and graffiti, aged fine like wine—was slammed open. Its front face hit the wall outside, leaving both of them with new scars to tell more tales. A young man in homey clothes burst outside. His face was rugged, his eyes still innocent. His hair was messy, the perfume he wore coming from the shampoo he adored whenever he bathed. He had muscle here and there, but his stomach bulged slightly. His hands were delicate, though hints of callouses were just beginning to form. He had seen things—things he reckoned were not too trivial. But all along, they were mere fiction, unnecessary for men of the common sort. He saw himself as both partly common and uncommon. His eyebrows were crunched. His face was far too emotional, a tint of red spreading all over. He turned around and shouted. "I'm done! I...

I know I will never be a better son to you. But— just this once, let me be, be me. To tell the truth, I wanted to be not just enough. More! Yet— much like me, none the better, I simply cannot.

The man in strange attire claimed himself the center of the world. He believed himself the one in command. Though there were those he saw as better, nonetheless, they were merely plots, schemes, ploys, and conspiracies the whole world had for him. He walked all too gently across the aisles of the common—folks of races so different from each other. Some led, some were led, a few believed they were leading, and so on and so forth. These were the races that mattered most. Their skin had altogether turned grey, and suits of different adornments were what led them all. Though their hues differed, they were all the same. Yet for the man in different attire, he was the only one different. The streets were always littered. The garbage, all too common, was the least of concern. It was dreams that remained afloat, scattered throughout. Dreams that were still burning. Dreams that continued being chased. Dreams that had long ago unbecome. These were what was too common, yet of greater importance. ...