AI Journey

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. ...

"Lord, please save her." The alley was well lit. Men of different collars intertwined as common folk. The view of the sky beneath tangled wires stared down upon men worried only about trivial things. Various jungle-like echoes resonated along the walls, the street pavement, the stalls, and even within dreams made of flesh. Sweat and foul odor mixed with sweet, cheap colognes. They were all without worry except for their true god: money. "Please, let there be something good to eat." A man moved through the crowd. He was unsure whether he had made the right choice coming here. He seriously did not like being anywhere outside the office or his home. "Hopefully, we have more customers today." He was not wearing his usual clothes. He hated not wearing white. His choice of color claimed the symbol of purity. He hated not wearing his comfy, feather-decorated fluffy indoor flip-flops. He hated not wearing his hooded pajamas that hid his face well. He hated not wea...

Clouds drift across the sky. The sun at the peak of its being. High roofs. Bell tower. Wires in the air. Festive flaglets. Awkward poles. Broken windows. Old men looking down. All littering the sky. Below— Grey men and women, faceless beneath the mask of the common folk, moving in routine and mechanical motions. Clockworks of hands greater than religion: money. Panes, stalls, shelves—filled, half-filled, half-empty. Eyes of dead souls, all the same. Doors half-open, open and never open—gateways for robbers, patrons, wandering souls seeking shelter, and people who wished only to fan a flame. All these were trivial to both men—with dreams, and without. It was afternoon in the usual lounge the two men claimed as theirs. Lunchtime had nearly ended. Morning work had passed. The lounge, made of a street gutter, was a haven for the few—including them—hidden within a busy district of men of different races. And you and I—reader and writer—may read and write different things. The others had alr...

Better yet, no narrative involved. So life has always been and will always be. The plot thickens— or so foretold by men dressed in suits inside small boxes, or by riddlers who mistake confusion for truth. Tragic and comic all the same. Lazy men prevail over the masses, against odds and claimed villains, with or without virtue. An unclaimed right of all men, actors and actresses, who choose preservation over morale. We are long asleep— far longer than we have ever dreamed. May we succeed without realizing the dreams we never dreamed.

There were no mirrors in my dream, yet the me I saw was all too unreal. I was bulky, too powerful, menacing, fearsome, evil. I kid around telling everyone I am never a good person, yet still believe myself to be. But in my dreams, I was. Was I truly evil? Or was I only afraid of the me unbridled?

They kept their dreams— dreams unrealized, unfulfilled, deemed unnecessary later in life. For what would trivialities mean compared to statistics, numbers, and probability? Oh! Men of thought, unhappy to bear the bare minimum of being happy. People smile. They feel joy. Superficial. Skin-deep. Lies. The tragic end of each— heroes of their own.

The sky was filled with wires, clouds, and the sun. The street was filled with smoke — a freshly blended scent of nicotine, exhaustion, and fuel. Tiny men of grey hurried along, both the exhausted and those who wished to live slowly. They were all unaware of both their monotone and their greatness. A quaint bookshop stood too old on a street uncommon to ink and paper. Its glass, dusty from the outside, remained pristine within thought. Displays of titles bore names too foreign for the world the shop stood in. It was an alien to the street filled with men of soot, calloused hands, sweat, hard work, and collars of blue. There were books, papers, bundles of letters, splatters of spilled ink, bottles of ink both filled and empty, a pen, a quill, a pencil, rulers, compasses, clips, weights, a lamp, a calculator, and whatever clutter could gather upon the table owned by a man too busy to take even a moment to clean it. Instead, he remained seated near the open window, looking at whatever the...