AI Journey

When do we understand? When does refusing to understand become normal? When did misunderstanding become the norm? The last light of the day broke. It was already evening when the vendors—still almost full of their stocks, unsure how to manage what remained—continued shouting for help. Come here! Best quality! Best service! Good choice! And so many other jungle-sounding howls and tweets and roars of bloodthirsty—poor, meek, kind‑hearted souls who only wanted to live, dream of a better tomorrow, and maybe, at the very least before they met their last, leave a mark. Something—anything—that could give meaning to their living. Most of them were religious. Not far from them were the bruisers—the true savages—who meant nothing but harm to these pitiful souls, if that even was the proper adjective. These evil predators preyed on those who only wanted to live. They had already gotten their pay for the day in that tiny corner of the world, a street so quaint, and so they moved on to the next. “T...

I dreamt of my mother crying. I was frozen for a moment before I felt a sudden rush to flee to the other side. Oh—and I don’t mean by death. I’ve already, many times hence, made dealings, conversed, even placed my bets with such a great of— And so I did, with all my mind, let my gaze shift to other pressing trivias. I don’t want my tears flowing, and so I have to— I have to be busy. I have to think of something else. I have to be elsewhere. Let my mind drift elsewhere, all the while feeling immersed in a world I’m losing my— Oh. Alas. It was all nothing but a dream. A make-believe. A delusion. Or maybe, a reminder. ---- The sun basked in all the glory the world could offer, baking everything beneath its scorch. Clouds elsewhere wandered fleetingly, thinning, disappearing. A spell of dry wind caught an ensemble—the choir of many trying to shade‑avoid the heated dispute inside themselves and the vanity of the day sky. It was afternoon, a few hours past peak. Yet the sun stayed constant, ...

The mortal pleaded. He asked, “When will the miracle arrive, Lord? Days gone to weeks, then months, then a year now. Still—nothing. When will it arrive?” The Almighty answered, “Haven’t you counted? Haven’t you looked?” The mortal pressed on, his voice strained, “The routine of the world rotating, the day and night recurring—such matters are constant, trivial to the ever-increasing need we have. Oh, dear Lord, please let us fathom the mercy you meant for us all.” The Almighty replied, “Oh? You no longer count those as miracles now?” The mortal hesitated, then spoke again, “I… we… those are—essentially—that is what we need right now.” The Almighty questioned him, “Weren’t you hungry? Weren’t you thirsty? Were you not in need of rest? Were—” The mortal cut in, “Terribly inadequate.” The Almighty answered without anger, “Tell that to everyone with very much the same color of needs as you do. And to be fair, I only give what you actually need. Not much, not less. Can you not see the miracl...

They were alone   in an infested world   filled with lonely souls.   No connection.   Only needs, wants, time—   just for passing.   They were all victims   in need of saving   from no hero. — “I… uhh…” Isabella was still dazed after the weight of what they had done finally dawned on her—last night, and early that morning. The realization crept in slowly, like an illness she had once believed herself cured of. An itch followed. Then discomfort. For the first time in a long while—maybe fifteen years—she felt impure. Her fingers rubbed her shoulder, then her neck, then the nape of her hair, then her cheeks. Certain marks were visible. Kiss marks. Deep purple, blooming like bruised petals. “I thought… I thought…” Her voice trembled. “I… I don’t think we can get away from this.” She placed her hands against herself, measuring unconsciously—from her stomach down to her groin—as if confirming something had irrevoc...

It was hunger that made him want to feed them. He, too, had once felt it. He knew the pain and the unhappiness it brought— truly, genuinely, sincerely. And so, to the rest of the world, be he called evil or an oathbreaker, he did not mind. Such things were trivial compared to the little souls who would never again feel what he himself once had. — A long line stretched across a not-too-distant, very isolated confessional in a quaint, quiet, yet all-too-familiar church. It was not eerily unpopulated; the season for sinners flocking had yet to arrive. Without festivities, saints and lords were mere titles. Without occasions, the gods called gods were decorations—more signs of caution than reverence. They were equal to a sign that read: Beware: Wet Floor. The tragedy of faith. The light on the penitent’s side suddenly turned green. Two ladies stepped out, smiling, giggling, as if they had just enjoyed the best of their time. “See you in your room tonight, Father,” one whispered softly. The...

It is the failure of the last generation why we, the next, are fucked up. It is our generation’s failure why the next will be fucked up. “So, what’s your plan for the next one?” asked the mayor. He looked outside his second-floor window. Down the street, on the gutter pavement, two men basked in the morning rays of the sun—seemingly without worry for the day and what was to come. They enjoyed their talk, accompanied by poor man’s cigars and poor man’s, authentically artificial coffee. Truly pitiful. “Haven’t we discussed it last night?” said the half-naked man who smelled of sex so early in the morning as he calmly walked into the office. He rubbed his fingers through his hair, soothing his mind as the terrible crunch on his face slowly smoothed out. Two young women walked in behind the man who smelled of sex so early in the morning. They looked fully refreshed—save for the slight limp in their steps every now and then. Their smiles said otherwise from the pain they felt; the pleasure ...

To fall out of love. To be strangers again. No connection in between. Gazes unmeant and without meaning. It was never love to begin with. A mere curiosity of sorts, nothing more. “I thought she’d be the one,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning. He burped, sighed, chuckled a bit, sniffed the coffee held by his still-shaking hands, and took a sip. “Seriously, brother. What happened?” The man who could see strings lifted his hand and nudged his pinky upward. “I guess she was never the one after all.” “I see you’re still believing that supernatural stuff you usually humor us with,” said the man who smelled of booze so early in the morning. He sighed and placed his styro cup on their makeshift coffee table—the edge of the street pavement. Oddly enough, it was cleaner that day than most. He reached into his pocket, fumbled a pack of cigars with his rugged fingers, took one, and slipped it between his lips. “No jokes aside though—what happened?” The man who could see st...

Oh, how cruel it is for the stars to shine and bask in their own rays, while a blind man wishes to admire their spark. There is no greater irony than a man careless with his own wit, balanced at the edge of himself, trying to find calm in a storm— rugged by adversities, and more so by the trivialities life is both cruel and kind enough to offer. “What do they look like?” the blind man asked the man long dead. “What is?” the dead replied. “Am I not looking at them for the past hour we have been waiting here?” The dead followed the direction of the blind man’s face. He assumed it was how the old man passed the time— staring into nothing, as people like him often did. It would have been awkward to pry into things he didn’t care for, things too private, too personal to be offered so freely to strangers. Instead, he noticed the lamp post. A crack ran along its side, almost invisible unless one searched for it. Small flies hovered quietly around the floodlight, drawn to the false sun meant t...

Long Live the King The child of wonder held his breath, not out of fear, but of surprise. One by one, all the toys he had gathered, taken care of, and—soon after—found homes for, stood and knelt, as if in great unison. He was—is, and always will be—their king. “Long live the king,” said the teddy bear. The child remembered it. It was his favorite. And like a choir of angels singing hymns and praises, they echoed: “Long live the king.” First one, then the second—the unison faltered. By the third and so forth, the voices of the many synced into one. “Long live the king.” “What…” As if searching for the right words to fit through his tiny mouth, “I—I’m no king.” The choir broke. Rhythm turned to murmurs, murmurs to silence. “You’re all no more than toys to me,” the child said, honestly. “Merely my childish things. Nothing more—” “Remember this, your grace?” The teddy bear interrupted. He showed the king—and the crowd—a crudely patched scar on his side. The child’s eyes widened. “That’s a ...

Fourth day over. Begging still. Why am I still even here? If memory be kind, this is my second— no, my third, perhaps— lie I have already committed to myself. To myself. And I am quite sure this won’t be the end. I’m a liar. Really. And I know I never was good with lying. So— how come I’m still here? I should have been dead already since 2023.