AI Journey

Behold! Rubies! The deep crimson hue moments after the golden hour. It glistens— flowing out my neck from the stinging kiss longed for and granted. Oh, how lovely it is. I could die any moment now, knowing I’ve felt true love. Lumière! I am become!! Rubies! Red, crimson rubies— overflowing! The warm kiss of both mercy and surrender . This is what love truly is! May the flame of hell pale in comparison to my sin and suffering.

If only my voice could reach the far ends of eternity. Maybe I could have called out. The whole world just barged in, unannounced, without malice—just being— Of course, who would even dare not claim cruelty and injustice when it is all— me. No one’s to blame, not even this faultless world we all deemed unworthy. Maybe etched one day on a plaque, without a name, just a few unremarkable words: Herein lies the man so coward, even the devil laid beside him. They both waited for eternity, contemplating each other’s own fault. Sought, found, and carelessly abound by grief— on each other a company none else ever saw become. While others praised, worshipped, damned, and cast out the other’s name, each took great lengths and with utmost care, to see a sight none else but them beheld. It isn’t the world’s fault to misunderstand, nor is it theirs. They loved. They grew tired. And ever so deeply, wanted things made impossible for them. He is he who prayed— prayed ever so hard, and still left— And ...

It is your lips that I crave most, though we are, to each other, strangers. It is you— and you alone— who could quench my thirst for— Oh! How beautiful it would be, if it wouldn’t hurt as much as I believe it would.

Somehow, I still fear the afterlife. I’m no longer concerned with the consequence; the pain will be— so much… but it’s just one moment. Then it’ll fade. I know it’s both cruel and cowardly of me to have these thoughts, to even want it. But can’t I have a moment of reprieve? Just this one fleeting instant of eternity where I’m in control. I know I’m not brave enough, but each day I’m getting more and more convinced that even a coward like me could do it. It’s only a moment— a single breath, a sigh— that’s how long this eternity would be. Compared to an almost lifetime of despair, sadness, grief, and endless chances for disappointment, that moment feels like nothing. Oh, how blessed I would be if I only knew what waits hereafter.

What happened to your eyes? No, not your dark eyebags. I’ve been noticing you sleep later and later each night— or should I say, early morning. Don’t go on telling me that same excuse about ghosts haunting your room. They don’t. They’ve long made peace with you, since you’re a kind soul. But it’s not about that. Your eyes— they’re darker. Not the kind born from sleep deprivation, but the kind that comes from someone who’s accepted too many things. Know that that isn’t you, alright? You’re braver than that. You’re tougher. Whatever keeps you awake each night, I’m sure you’ll get through it. I know you can. I have very little faith in religion— you know that, and I know you know. But with you, I am confident. I trust you. I have faith in you. Get it together. Go on a hike if you need to. Walk through a forest for a change of scenery. Watch the sunset near the ocean. Just… hold on. Have faith. Just for one more day, if you have to. Just don’t give up, okay? You’ll get through it. If you n...

Look, mom, I discovered a new color. It’s a deeper hue of red, and it stings a bit, but it’s brighter, warmer, and somehow even more realistic. I hope you’ll find it in you to forgive me one day— both you and dad. Oh! Don’t mind it. It did hurt a little at first, but it’s alright. We can paint the whole world in a much, much deeper tone than it ever was. I did learn sketching, and I’m good with words, so— maybe I’ll get by with painting. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll make it good. I’ll definitely be great, so— cheer up, mom, dad. I don’t blame anyone, and it’s not your fault. It never is. Thank you for raising me to be one heck of a good kid. I love you both.

The time for grace is always a time of prayer. Said the man who didn’t want to be disturbed while he ate. It is true, though, that these few moments of the day are scarce and often neglected. But is it ever an excuse to deny connection? A hardworking man, covered in soot, dust, sweat — his hands still stained and calloused — after a whole day of labor, finally gets the chance to relax and enjoy his meal. “Dad, can you help me?” Should the man say, “Begone, I am eating!” or, “Why don’t you join me? Let’s do it later.” But this is inside a home. A teacher, after a few hours of being busy, finally gets the rest he claims he so deserved, and a meal his wife cooked — both his favorite, both a comfort he rarely gets to enjoy. “Excuse me, sir… can you help me with this?” A small voice from behind. It was the teacher’s least favorite student. The boy pointed at a question only he didn’t understand. Should the teacher say, “Come here, let’s take a look, shall we?” or, “Begone, I am eating.” I k...

I know I'm not the best son, Mom. I'm sorry. I’ll probably still be a mess later on, but I apologize, and I mean it. This is… as far as I can go. It’s not your fault or Dad’s. It’s me. I’m the one to blame. I wish I were a better son to both you and Dad. I'm really sorry, Mom.

I tried, Dad. I really did. It's just that… I'm scared. Yes, I didn't, because I was scared. I'm sorry, Dad. I wish I were a better son.

Oceans are born when gods reflect, rivers form when gods long to behold themselves. All these spring from both their eyes and their desire to behold.

I kept on repeating, one more day, thinking the next day would be better — yet better days never came. I'm tired — so tired. Don’t tell me I wasn’t there when things were good; I was tired then too, but not like this — not like this. That one more day on repeat turned to two, then a week, then a month, and now, almost a year later... that one day I kept waiting for became — a broken promise, an impossible oath, a miracle that never bloomed. Empty skies, an eternity of silence, no one left to hear our unsaid prayers.

Oh, there is no greater comfort than a hug on the neck from a perfectly woven rope, tied delicately and with precision, ever so gently — just enough to take your breath away. There will be a chair, too, holding you in ovation, standing beneath all your grandeur. It will be there to behold you. For at that very moment, among all creation, you are the tallest. When you finally take that leap — that one single, final leap — the ceiling wouldn’t even exist — it would cease to. The bittersweet pills, the razor, the blade, the syringes, the bottles of alcohol, even the edges of highrises — they, in bated breath, fall into dead silence. They are envious. And as for the rest of the world, they would fall silent in awe. You’ve finally decided — you’ve finally taken charge — you finally had the courage — you finally, finally — finally — took that one chance. If only you could’ve heard the faint echo of the many who whispered from the distant, nearing eternity: “Encore.” How much more grand and m...

The thing about drawing is you get to be lucid about the details or, at the very least, be vivid. So the most intricate, minute detail should always— always be readily in your eye, your mind, your judgment. You start with silly lines. A box, if you have to. Then a sphere. Then you draft layers of infinite detail. With rough sketches and erasure, you start to form pictures—ideas of sort, the very image you see. The first try won’t make sense. The next still won’t. But to you, it does. Seriously, it actually does. But only you can see it. Then you add flaws, things which make it resemble who or what you want to draw. Be it a tiger you saw on TV or the fat dog you’ve been meaning to rub the tummy of, the neighbor you greet before work— oh, the chubby, chunky flab of a fat dog. But let’s not get sidetracked. Then you start drawing faces. At first, they look like random, unreal people. Then, maybe, like the animated hero you saw on TV. Then, out of nowhere, you draw a friend. You show it to...

I’ve been— actually, not feeling like myself lately. Resentment, rage, a force of hate that rises too fast— it swallows me whole before I even notice. I… just yesterday, I lashed out at my father. The man with the most patience, the one closest to me, the only one who understands me without judgment. And I— the ever ungrateful son— I broke something gentle in him. I hate myself for it. And even though I apologized, and he accepted it with more grace than I deserved, I know I hurt the one soul I should never wound. Sometimes, I feel like I am the weight he never asked to carry— Oh, how I wish I were a better son.

I tried my hands at drawing— again, after many long years. I was proud of my doodles once, not knowing they were unremarkable and far too green. When I realized I wasn’t the artist I always thought I was, I gave up on the lines, the shapes, the sketches, and turned to letters and poetry instead. My rhythm and verses weren’t remarkable either, but I had more fun playing with words and letting my soul take on a new form. Still, I never quite understood figures, lines, shapes, and pictures. I believed I wasn’t any kind of artist— because to draw, I had to visualize, imagine, trace, to see clearly what lived in my mind. Until I tried drawing again. The lines curved into shapes and patterns— details I once could only describe with some silly name. I never thought I’d see the most intricate parts— the boxes, spheres, lines, and ellipses coming together as form and picture. Oh, I wish I never gave up on being more— when I could have become more if I hadn’t stopped. Oh, how I wish I realized, ...

Maybe my hell will not be in a sea of flames or eternal punishment. Maybe it will be me placed in an empty room — all sides bright, and the sense of left, right, up, and down diminishing. Maybe I will be left alone there, left to contemplate all the sins I’ve done. It will be so lonely. Maybe I’ll also be given a book where I could draw and a pencil I could use to sketch. I’ll only be given one page a day, and by the next day what I wrote or drew will all vanish. I’ll learn a lot in the few days, weeks, or so. Maybe after a year I would’ve rivaled great artists, but only maybe — maybe if I could remember everything I ever wrote and drew. Then a day will finally come when my mind begins to play tricks on me, who is supposed to be tormented. Maybe they’ll begin to speak, scream, and utter my name and nonsense. Maybe I would’ve believed them by then. After many more days or so, maybe I would’ve forgotten what I look like. Then, as more time passes, maybe I would also forget what a human a...

Did the devil also cry when he, too, realized his folly? Or were his tears meant to extinguish the flames of hell?

Such a shame that you don’t see it. And you have the gall to drag them down and throw insults. Then you say: "You’re struggling." What’s real would be: you’re struggling to see your own faults. Truly a shame. What a tragic, miserable life you’re living.

I got really mad earlier. I was… if I could describe myself, I really am an angry man— but I like it better when I smile. I like it better when I laugh. I like it better when I talk, when I have friends to hear me. When I’m mad, it feels like the world’s against me, and I have to hit back— fast, hard, and first. So even without thinking, I just go rage. Rage against the world. Rage against everything. It’s the world I’m mad at, and it’s the world— the one thing I can’t ever win against. It feels lonely being angry. It feels sad being angry. I hate it when I’m mad. I am an angry man… but I feel better when I’m not.

I broke my sister’s toy      I was already mad,   and when it suddenly dropped near me,   something in me snapped.   I raged,   picked it up,   and wrecked it.      It sounds silly, maybe trivial,   but now that my anger’s gone,   all I can remember   is how she proudly showed it to me.      One evening, she called out:      “Hey bro, look at this!   Ain’t it cool?”      It wasn’t that special.   I’d seen many like it before.   “Okay, cool,” I shrugged,   telling myself she was being silly.      I didn’t know then   that it was one of the first things she bought   with her own hard-earned money.   And with all that childish innocence—   that magical spark in her eyes—   that I failed to see. ...

No! The struggles are yours alone, You're just — you're dragging everyone down… with you. Don't say life is a total mess when it's all your fault — all of it. Don't go blaming god or god knows who you believe, or who just damn hates you — it's all you. It is all you. People care — They — we do! Snap out of this mess you keep spinning — on and on and on. Nothing's going to get fixed if you keep at it. Get up, take deep breaths, calm down, concentrate — and think better thoughts. The struggle is real — it is! I know. But if you just go at it without thinking straight — nothing will. The struggle is real — it is! But you're not alone. Can't you notice them all trying to help? If you just focus on things not going your way, you won't notice the hands helping you get on the right track. You won't appreciate their own struggle for you — for — you. We're here — We are here! Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm down. Time's running out— I know. But ...

He was a murderer, a thief, a liar — one who had tricked gods and devils alike. After years inside prison, he was finally set free. Left to contemplate what he’d done, he tried to be better, tried to be new. But the marks he left on the world were things not easily forgotten — or forgiven. He set out on a journey toward redemption. And every road he reached led only to rejection. To the many, he was a blight — they shunned him, drove him off — even hurled insults as he passed. The sins of his past, though paid for, clung to him like smoke. Still, he continued. One afternoon, on one of the hottest days, he found a chair beneath an oak tree, in a quiet corner of the park. There he sat down to rest. People passed by with narrowed eyes and curled lips; if not for fear of retaliation, they might’ve harmed him. He sighed. Maybe it was time to give up. He had tried. He was trying — harder than ever — yet the world stayed exactly as it had always been. A constant. Unforgiving. They never looke...

There is no denying it: my heart is still beating. And somehow — as if by a conspiracy — we always, always fall into the same rhythm. This was never planned, never meant, yet somehow our eyes, our paths, always lock and cross. As if by magic, guided by hands unseen even to us. But don’t get me wrong — I’m happy. I really am. For these few short moments, we get to meet again and again, and these fleeting moments, to me, stretch into painfully short eternities. Oh, how I wish these moments were more common, and lasted a few eternities more. Just so you know — in case I haven’t said it clearly enough: Yes, I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you. I’m in love with you.

“We can finally save the world.” It’s ironic that we both said the same, yet meant not. He came from a family too broken, yet held himself together with a smile—always. I, unbroken yet estranged, as if never meant to be—yet still laughing. Though the world seems cruel—truly so, both of us carried on with masks and voices that weren’t ours. Bruises, harsh words, open wounds— traumas, unloved— this was our life. Even so, we dreamed big dreams. For both of us. And when chance arrived— the stroke of luck, the opportunity we never thought possible— it happened. Our eyes meet— two distinct, mirrored reflections. We never really meant the same. Oh! The irony—we dreamed alike, but woke on opposite sides of the bed, feeling worlds apart. “Finally, we can save the world.” But in the first place, why would we even— when this world never—

She’d look beautiful — pristine — in white. Ah, how her gown would slip like dunes of sand, as the wind whispered its adoration; and as her veil lifted, the secret I’ve always known — that she herself is wonder — unfolded before me. The most sought treasure, after all. Oh! If only ... How I wish —

I — never truly meant to liken her to a desert. Yet much like that barren land, she hides her beauty beneath silence — a beauty only weary travellers and children of the sand ever notice. The desert never stays the same from day to night. By day, she is dazzling, harsh, the sun glistening on her skin; the arid air turns even the quenched to thirst again. But the desert at night is different. Cold, cautious, dangerous — yet honest. She watches more closely in the dark. Have you noticed? In the night, the veil thins; the stars are sharper, the moon more certain. It is her eyes — yes, her eyes. By day she allures with oasis and mirage, but at night it is she who is allured — drawn toward wonder, toward the world, toward you. And I still cannot believe that she, with all this beauty, walks the world unloved.

One day, I’ll stand on that pedestal, bleeding my heart out, gouging the eyes of each audience as they watch me color the silence with beautiful, ever-changing notes. I will have their heartbeat and breathing sync in to my beat and rhythm. I will make them recall memories— so vivid, so frighteningly real— their overflowing tears will spill over into the sea. What do you say—maybe we can make a new ocean here, after the performance. Only the hums of a thousand birds will cheer, as their own hands make it so. Oh! I won’t hear only one soul or two calling for an encore— there will be many. And the conductor will have his hand raised already to follow the wish of the crowd. Then I can say: I am ready to die. This— is why.

So— Oh—no, no, no. Don’t cry—yet. First, tell me why you’re here. You don’t know why you’re here?! Oh! Stop with that— that awful— awfully beautiful thing you’re doing. It’s not time for that. Not yet. So, let’s start again, shall we? Why are you here? Oh, I see— Hold on. Okay. Now I get it. You’re lying— that’s enough! Shhh—I said enough! Stop! Listen when I’m talking! Your eyes show your innocence from sin— You’re too good to be here. Oh, don’t give me that. I know. We all know. All of us here—know! So tell us— why you’re here instead of—

With the world almost— At its end, I feel more at ease. Every bad thing will finally— Yeah. . . the good things will end too— But— The point is we have to enjoy it. . . Every bit of these final moments. I know it’s a bit short, but At least now you have time… to start that story you always talked about. Or, if you want, we can—

It's on repeat— over and over again. It's repeating . . . Yet each time more  tears fall. It's on repeat— same words, same beat . . . Yet each time—

You said to go with the flow— let the flow be the guide. We’re drowning over here! And don’t go telling me we must adapt in order to survive— grow fins and gills if we have to— We’re human beings! We’re no fish! We’re not some kind of supernatural beings that can just become  on a whim! Things take time. Period! Things take time— I repeat! And don’t go saying whatever you’re saying as if— Oh! Your sharp voice and fiery glares carry chains and whips like a tyrant wanting to build Rome in a day! Don’t! The mask won’t fit— so don’t. If you care— and I mean if you really do care — lead! Be an example! Understand. Be patient. We are not you— and no, we are never the team you actually wanted. But we can be— just— take care of us. That’s all.

You’re an idi— Oh! How marvelous. To want to cry, but not be able to. To want to speak, but have no words come out. To want more, yet feel all too satisfied— and tell oneself: This is enough— This is it. Just notice it. You’re shaking— your hands are trembling at what you just witnessed. No, you aren’t. With deep regret, I’m sorry. I apologize. You just have to let it set in first— let it sink in—

The soul is there— Hush! Listen! Can’t you hear it?! The beat— It’s a heart beating! Quiet! Feel it! It’s there— it’s there! No! Hush! Don’t look if you can’t see it! Just listen— Listen! Can not hear it?! Can you not feel it?! Hush! It’s there! The soul is there!

A: To begin with. . . I never really had a place here. No matter how much I try, how hard I give, none of it matters. It’s as if I’m a stranger in every language spoken, a visitor in every room I enter. I don’t belong. Not here. Not anywhere. B: That’s your problem? Mine is far crueler. The whole world denies me. They reject my very breath. It’s not that I don’t belong— it’s that I do, and the world refuses to admit it. They hate me for existing, for standing where they can see me. I am what they avert their eyes from. A: Then we’re the same, you and I. Two peas in the same cracked pod. B: No. No, no, no. . . you misunderstand. This world has been cruel to me my entire life. But you— you’re only passing through. A traveler, lost in a land not your own. You don’t belong because you’ve yet to find that one place, that one heart that says, “You do.” Me… I once had that. A home. A voice that said, “Welcome back.” Now, they’re gone— no longer part of this world. And no matter how far I wand...