AI Journey

It's benign— the obsession we have with life. The malignant lie we sometimes speak of, about sacrifice for a higher purpose, is only a fleeting moment. There is no chronic illness for this. We have all been diagnosed right from the very beginning. As long as hope still exists, so too does our desire to live forever. We don’t need a doctor to remind us— no treatment, no appointment. We just.

But that isn't my fault. How is that supposed to be my fault? I never intended to be.. There were people everywhere. Fewer than the usual men in grey hues, but still too many. They were all dressed in black—dark, uniform, almost suffocating. Though the palette could blur into other indistinct shades, it was clear there was nothing but washed-out black. The same as the mascara that ran beneath the masks of ugly people decorated with plain vanity. A few wore the color with great performance, as actors of tragedy should. "You must be tired, young man," a pale old woman appeared. She held a pamphlet in one hand and a purse at her waist, which she clutched with the other. "Why don't you rest in the guest room? Or if you want... oh! Never mind, your aunts were using her room." Her voice was concerned, caring—with a hint of something else. With motif. With insult. He knew. The young man smiled. You all killed her. "I'm fine here, thank you," he replie...

Daedalus was never sad because Icarus fell. He felt grief when he realized the only person who could understand him was moving on without him. Icarus was burning, he was in pain… but his smile was too bright, even for the sun to notice. Icarus’ words: “Father. Father. Father.” He was never asking for help.

The memories will linger once again and more maybe next year and the next even after I’m old or when…

I woke up feeling— like I’m not of this world. I’m in the same body I know I was, the same situation I was in… but— something feels wrong. A strange thought: I don’t belong here. And yet, I’m certain… is this just me— wishing for a dream I know will never come true? Or… have I slipped somewhere else?

I have kept the faith— but why am I still being punished? ------ The alabaster walls, murals, stained glass, and the angels glowed in hues distinct to the moonlight carved many millennia ago, meant for eyes that still witness. The humming machinations of both light and wind echoed throughout the pews, pedestals, scattered confessionals, and the silent choir—empty of souls at that very hour. A man had taken special permission to stay among the pews at the back corner, so close to an entrance long since locked. The only other souls that remained were either elsewhere inside the church or outside. Here and there, a soul would pass, but they were concerned with other, more trivial matters of grave consequence. Another man approached him—a quiet man of cloth. He smelled of nicotine and ashes. A blend of holy and sin. But he was not concerned. Long ago, he had decided that the ashes of the church would mix well with his favorite brand of cigar. That was not always the case. It was his cloth ...

And all I could do was watch, in silence, as I begged for all of heaven not to lead them astray— as once I was. I never liked seeing the blood of children— my children. And worst of all, they shout it was all in my name. If only I could shed tears they could understand, if only they could hear my whisper when they cry in prayer. Oh—how I wish I could do more for them.

I am both angered, grieved, and disappointed that I— who claimed to be abandoned— know where true faith must lie. I have blasphemed. I have denied. I have rejected. And yet there will always be moments when I have to let faith decide. I am unfaithful, yet I know how to pray. To whom— I do not even care to name— but still, I still can. And yet somehow, of all the ones who are meant to be innocent, faithful believers, I am repulsed by those who claim sin in the name of faith.

The reason is simple. I took pity on her. That’s it. No— it’s not that she’s calling out to me, nor that she and I somehow share a common— interest? outlook? destiny? I don’t know— but I know there is something. And before you say anything, it isn’t romance. I love her, but not to the point I’d want to marry her. Just— no. And I repeat: it is pity. Nothing else. And perhaps it’s me being petty. I want to prove to the world that someone like her— really, truly— can make a difference. Before you get ahead of yourself, even if it was all just me taking pity on her, I’d stand by her even if she stood against the world. And if fate tests me, all I can say is I have faith in her. Nothing more— but hopefully, just enough.

And yet— with just one small mistake, the whole world turned against him. Still… even still!! he wanted to be a hero anyway.