AI Journey

Why would they assume I’ll still be here by Christmas? Haven’t they done enough? Seriously, I’m tired. I’m so tired. Exhausted. Aching all over. I want to quit— right now. Yet, I can’t. I’m afraid, yes. Fearful of what’s— I don’t want to go yet, but I need to. I really, really need to. This cycle has to break. I can’t anymore.

What did I do to deserve being reminded that I still owed a few moments more to bear witness to the world’s appreciation— that I, already a dead man inside, still need to live. I’ve given up hope, already, and still I get reminded— how different the world would be without me. Should I change my mind when I’ve already decided?

And I know it may sound too— obsolete? wasteful? useless? Correct me if I’m wrong, I know it may sound unfair. But at least, for another soul, be the reason they’re happy to be living. Remind them the world may be cruel, but it is not cruel all the time. Tell them, in some sort of way— or at the very least— make them believe they are not just a whisper shot into the great void. They are a shout, meant to be heard. A spark that somehow, across the many worlds, can still be seen. A soul that isn’t alone. Make them feel noticed. Make them feel the whole world can—and will—listen to them. At the very least, make their unbecoming stop, and let them just be. Make them feel alive.

I’m scared. I’m honestly scared. Terrified, fearful. I don’t want to— go yet, yet still this certain feeling of mine creeps all over, telling me I must go. I’m scared, really. Oh—would anyone out there— please, save me.

Here I am looking at new prospects. Much like how the stars look up at the sea for sea urchins, anemones, or clowns, the glowing sand, combed by the ebb of the sea, belittles what they are— gazing into the infinite before them. I do wonder myself sometimes: is there more to life, after all the callouses, sleepless nights, sweat-filled days, days spent with growling stomachs, even empty stomachs, aching hearts— still, after each day, I breathe. I’m alive. Though no longer thankful as I used to be, the warmth of closing my eyes feels distinctly euphoric. With my head still on top of my neck, my eyes fixed on the ceiling— sometimes just the night sky, filled with wires and concrete walls on the periphery— is all there is to it I’ve already reached?

It’s quite magical that the visions I often came to see of myself, far ahead, suddenly vanished. I can no longer see myself holding guns blazing as hordes of invaders come flooding, as I— on my own— hold the final frontier, the last stand, the final boss to the conquerors. I can no longer see myself bossing people around, laughing without care and with the utmost concern for my people’s welfare. Eyes wide, gleaming— smiling fake smiles, laughing fake smiles, while somehow remaining genuine. I am the boss of these people; they are my burden to carry. I can no longer see myself holding a bouquet of roses, face crimson red in deep embarrassment, maintaining a straight face— whispering to myself to be nonchalant, to not show too much, while the pitch of my tone, in awkward free verse, rises. I can no longer see myself writing as much— poetry, stories, tales, lullabies, and silly notes that will one day remember me. I can no longer see myself making my parents proud, or everyone who knew me...

maybe— it was never the intent of Icarus to make Daedalus worry. what kind of son would want his loving father to cry? maybe— Icarus promised his old man: Dad, I promise you, I will make them apologize. I myself will go to heaven and demand the gods apologize to you. to you who did nothing wrong but obey; to you who did nothing else but try to keep his son safe; to you whose story the authors of this forsaken fairytale took great interest in— not for you, not for the father, but for entertainment. to you whom, given a thousand million chances to be reborn, I—your son— would always choose to be my dad. maybe— this was Icarus’s promise. and Daedalus, the ever-protective father, sheltered his son to the point of caging him from the world— and from all the hurt it carried. unknowingly, he was causing his son a different kind of pain. but Icarus didn’t know that. and even if he did, he wouldn’t have minded. it was what his father wanted. and maybe— just maybe— when it was finally time to gr...

When words grew tired, the pen started dancing, as if in rhythm— in great free verse. Etches and sketches took center stage. It may not look like it now, or not how they were intended, but the soul of the artist is there. It is there.

To wear a facade of being in love while not actually— a delusion I allow myself to reign over me, as I look back on what my life has been all this time. Past the calendar, still loveless, even the seasons, changing faithfully, have grown distraught— no longer interested in waiting. Oh, strange life, and all of grand poetry, both symmetrical and free in verse— how nonchalant, how wonderful it would be if— like faded memories, I too could vanish in a soft, melancholic tone after. I don’t think it would hurt as much as it does right now. Yes—right now, when I am alive, still capable of being remembered, though only when needed. I hurt as well. Not the kind of pain that screams, but the kind that settles— quiet, persistent, real. Oh, I hate this pain I am in. I wish my love, and my love for life, were true. Right now, it’s all just a facade.

And what should I do? As one chained and sheltered, untaught by the world, convinced for so long that this was all I could be — was there ever anything more? It’s so lonely. There seems no comfort left, too far removed, blinded by memories. Will death be the key? I have nowhere else to go. What can I do? They drowned me in love once — now in overprotection. They never let me grow wings. The ceiling too low, their thoughts too shallow. What can I do? How can I go—

Please… let me be frank. Please let me be frank. I’m drunk— laughing both hysterically and cold. And in this sharp, stupid clarity, I can see the strings hanging off everyone. We’re all puppets— puppets to the invisible hands called fate, playthings of a puppeteer who moonlights as the author. We don’t notice it— but we are. We all are. And here I am, in this borrowed moment of lucidity, painfully aware that we are not beings of free will— No. We are not. And the more I see it, the more it makes me wonder: If ever I could tug these strings, would I be the one in control? Or would that, too, be another act scripted for me? They say only a blade to the throat cuts the line clean. But that would hurt— far too much. I don’t want that. And neither do the ones who are happy because they’re told to be. Lucky are those born stringless, and luckier still are the ones who yank and claw and stumble until every thread snaps. Those are the truly free. But what do I know? I’m just a drunk with no to...

And I dreamt of death— of being the one who failed, yet withstood my ground against a thousand—NO— a million enemies. I would remember none of it— not the moment metal gently caressed my armor, nor the pain seeping through the cracks into my body, as I pushed with all my might, impossibly, against the tide. A single grain of sand— that would have been me, one among the many who’d fallen. A line in history. But as for my story, I am not a single grain of sand. Oh, I am far more grand. I am more than anything most men would dare dream of. I am the wall—the mountain no one passes lightly. I am the absolute obstacle, the pinnacle of pinnacles, the immovable object. The only one. With all the glory and honor, I basked in that moment before I— I am the statue shaped by Egyptians, the frozen guardians carved by Athenians, the very sentinel molded by the hands of architects and inventors. I am the one who endured it all. Though my eyes have closed, so too has the path to the enemy’s victory. I...

It is calling me, this is way higher and colder than me, my ceiling, and my chair. Oh! How exhilarating. Compared to her, the moon is much closer. The audience, just one leap away, and above all, here I am unreachable. I'll manage to fly if I try hard enough, of this I am all too sure. Oh! My little faith will be just enough to grow me wings. How exciting! Cold winds kissing me all over, my hair caressed asunder, basked in the moonlight gleam, I can feel it. I can feel all of it. The curtains closing, the audience calling out: Encore! Encore! Encore! How silly that they do not know, this is a one-time performance. A performance of a lifetime. Catch me, clouds! I'm not falling— this is flight!

My mother needs me; even my dad needs me too. How terrible of a son can I be if all I’ve ever thought about is leaving? The world is cruel; the world is unfair. But it does not mean I, too, should follow suit. Forget about hope; forget about miracles; what matters is you’re alive; what matters is you’re here; what truly matters is you. You can’t give up for such a minor setback. Your heart may break, but it can mend. You get hurt falling down — can you not get up? You’ve been so long inside this bubble you’ve always thought was your world. No! This is no longer you being sheltered. No! This is no longer you staying in your comfort zone. It is you. You know you want to reach out beyond the cage you’ve been in almost all your life. You crave it, don’t you? Why not try? The answer can be more than the noose you’re holding, or the metallic sharp object you always let bluntly kiss or dance on your skin. It is even higher than the edges of cliffs you’ve always wanted to visit. It’s more than...