AI Journey

"Are you happy?" a graying moth asked a fading firefly. "How many souls have I guided off? How many eyes have I led astray?" the firefly asked. "Does it matter?" replied the moth. "What meaning is my life? Why did I live?" the firefly asked. "To be happy," the moth answered. "I burned too bright," said the firefly. "So do all other fireflies," said the moth. "But are you happy?" "That my life is over? How could I be?" the firefly answered, frustrated. "Were you happy?" the moth asked. The firefly paused. His frustration thinned into something quieter. "That I have lived?" the firefly answered, slowly. "Should I have never?" A flicker stirred behind his fading light. "Were your life meaningful?" the moth asked. The firefly met his gaze. "Does it matter?" he replied.

Granted I was given, by some sort of fate, a boon of three wishes. I'd wish for two for the happiness of both my sister and my father. They try ever so hard to keep the world intact— a world I am in. As for my last wish, I'll keep it. You know how my mother and I are to each other, right? Though to be honest, my last wish would be for her to have a better son. That, maybe, the one thing I know will never be me.

In her grasp, the abyss held my stare by my throat, without mercy. I couldn't avert my gaze. She was, in all the world known, the most disgustingly beautiful. It was never love, yet in her, I found myself loved.

But what am I supposed to do? They cut off my wings and placed me in a cage for almost half my life, and soon after— for being too loud— you muzzled my lips. I only wanted to sing. I sing beautifully. Look! Even the clouds, in unison, part for the moon to pay heed. And you silenced me. What am I— what more can you do to me? Oh! You cannot kill me. You cannot kill what you long ago killed. “Hello,” a low voice came from not too far off—but not too close—from a figure sitting in a church pew. “Oh! Good evening, Father,” the man in strangely formal attire straightened his back, recovering from the slouch he had been in. His eyes were deep, his skin pale and soft to the touch. His hands were not much calloused, but clearly worn. He was tired. The man fixed his tie, stood up, and greeted the priest in a strange manner. He took the priest’s hand and moved to kiss it. The priest immediately pulled his hand back before the man could. What the— Oh. I’m a priest. Wide-eyed, he calmed himself and...

Pillows were never meant to be wet. They are meant to be comfy. They were never meant for catching tears. Rest now, my friend. You’ve survived another day. That alone is worth celebrating. Let sleep be your prize. Rest now. Sleep well.

After the sixth day, there came silence. Oh! It wasn’t because the seventh is the day for rest. It never was. It never was. The last day was always meant for contemplation— the dawning and fleeting moment where one concludes the story, the painting, the sculpture, the art made and given life. It is on this last day the author leaves his pen to venture off. It is in this very moment the sculptor lays down his hands. It is— it will be the only time the painter will lay down his brush. All these artists give their work one final moment. Oh! They make no revisions, they edit nothing else, they already see it as finished. A mistake will be called intended, no matter how the artist tells himself it was not, and anything else unintended will be given meaning by someone else. Invisible hands move in mysterious ways. And we, as creations, cannot simply comprehend— except accept and make do. We were never sheep in the palm of an angry god; we were something else. And the one who made us never—

Evil exists. It does. No— you misunderstand. Evil varies. We, as common— mundane, banal, so used to ourselves— are easily tempted, and never forever steady. We often lack the courage to decide which is the true lesser evil. And the truth is, we are rarely aware that we ourselves— with all our flaws, our indecision, our cowardice— are evil incarnate. Or perhaps we, as the human race— from which the word humane was born— simply deny it. "Oh! Sir, brave knight! Hail be to you—" A door meant to swing inward pushed out instead. A foot stepped in, retreated, and then two ragged hands appeared—calloused from too many tales oversung. "Enough with this noble speech. I am no noble. Nor am I one to speak such… what do you call it? Much-adorned foolishness understood only by the select few—and when I say select few, I mean the very few who fancy themselves chosen by a higher—" A man appeared—so scarred he seemed almost deformed. Bruises, old wounds, healing gashes carved perman...

“Good evening, Father Oscar,” a strange warm voice disturbed the stillness of the churchyard. The priest, who was supposed to be resting, was startled—not out of fear, but by a reason too common among the faithful and rarely voiced. “Oh. Why am I so blessed with this many trials and tribulations? They just keep coming,” the priest murmured, irritated that once again his peace was disturbed. “Tell me, Father Oscar. Was the moon always this dark?” the voice asked, unneeding an answer. “Oh. It’s you.” The man offered a cigar from his pack. A piece was already peeking out. The priest took the whole pack. “You know, as a man of the vest, we refrain from vice.” “And on the seventh day the Lord chilled. I’m pretty sure He had a cigar in His hand while He rested.” “You dare say blasphemous things in front of a man of faith?” One of the priest’s eyebrows rose higher than the other, his tone preachy and heavy. “More so, a priest.” “Oh, but Father Oscar—you’re you.” The priest sighed. He took a ...

It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. They should be disappointed? What about my disappointment? They’re unhappy? What about my happiness? They’re tired… they’re exhausted… Am I not? “It’s not usual for you to be…” The priest stopped himself, scratching his chin as he searched for the right word. His eyes lit up when he found it. “You’re not supposed to be here.” He was telling the stranger off the church grounds. “And you, Father,” said the man in rugged clothes, “are you supposed to tell people not to go to church?” The man wore the garments of a commoner. His hands weren’t too calloused. Dark bags weighed under his eyes, and he often carried a thousand-yard stare — a distance he was not unfamiliar with. He was a lonely man. But his mask said otherwise. There was something distinctly otherworldly about him, something foreign to where they stood. The priest smiled. “Our frequent meetings at the market tell me you aren’t a man of faith. I assumed you were—” The man sighed. “I don’t… I’...

And instead of hearing that— Oh… It didn’t have to be said. I already knew it would be followed by dots and great disappointment. But that wasn’t what came. I heard him blurt out: Woah! It didn’t matter how many exclamation points or question marks followed. I was sure, by the tone of his voice— He was amazed. Not intrigued, not curious. He was simply in awe. I was already accepting the painful words that would come after. Even the sharp gaze and the dismissive eye rolls. Instead, I was met with a child, with a dear, fragile, precious, youthful soul. He found in me many wonderful things I had ignored and long since deemed trivial. He saw me as amazing. He saw me as wonderful. He saw me as the greatest ever. There was no façade in his voice. I know— because I’m him. I never became what I wanted. Yet— Yet this child was happy. He was happy for me… for himself. He will one day grow up to be me. I regret to say he would. I would’ve wanted to tell him to never grow old, yet it’s in his eyes...

The confessional booth was musty, carrying a hint of a well-known cigarette brand mixed with incense. It was not too dark inside, save for the rays of light outside passing through the gaps of the newly old confessional. The small frames and walls of the booth avidly showed the workmanship of the carpenter who had perfectly made it. The true crème lay in the details: the heads of nails sticking out, the special parts of the frame within and without that squeaked undeniably when shoved by passing patrons. Truly, a man of great artistry had made this special place in the church. Squeek. The woman inside fixed her posture. Prickling sensations crawled through her numbing feet. What’s taking the priest so long? From the room next door came a strange, familiar hum. It was followed by the rustle and tussle of hair, as if someone were irritated. Then an ever-so-loud exhale, and a puff after taking a drag. There was a soul next door taking a break. The ears of the Lord were yet to be ready. It...

“To tell the truth…” the boy who forgot to smile genuinely sighed. “I never actually wanted to inherit this—this family business.” His friend was close to his age, though age clung to him differently. A receding hairline long past saving, a few stubborn gray hairs claiming small victories. A beard framed his face. His eyes, however, were honest—painfully so. His body was bulky, not with muscle but with weight borne from years of quiet depression. Still able. Still quick-footed, almost nimble for someone of his size. His age could not easily be guessed by sight. “You serious?” the friend asked. He stopped his mechanical routine and turned. “Are you—really, really serious?” “Yeah,” said the boy who forgot to smile genuinely. He faced his friend. An uncommon thing for the both of them. “You’re really serious,” the friend said. “Mind telling me why this—oh. Hold on. Did you go out drinking last night? Maybe it’s the alcohol talking. Hungover thoughts, not you.” The boy who forgot to smile ...