AI Journey

You're dying. You're breaking apart. You're at war inside yourself. You're sinking. You're drowning. Tell me honestly. You're just faking all of it, right? And even still— Despite all that— You were able to save someone. You managed to save someone. Someone who— maybe not in the exact same predicament as you, but still— Still! You saved someone.

The world owes you an apology. All the heavens do too. I know you're always hopeful. You're praying. Despite saying you aren't faithful, still you are hoping. Hoping for something better. Hoping for prayers answered. Hoping for something. And despite you saying all that nonsense, I know you didn't mean that. I know you didn't mean any of it. You just want to be saved.

Come now! Do not lose faith. That is simply how Our Lord God guides us toward what we are truly destined for. Do not dwell too much on the skirmishes unwon, the petty gambles lost, or the love broken without meaning. You are far better off at the promised end than within these unsung moments scattered across distant eternity. Do not worry. Do not fret. Do not lose faith. Calm down. Breathe. Let the universe conspire within the will of Our Creator.

Forgive me, please… for what I am feeling. But… I could not help but grieve and deny… the miracles overflowing and the love I am enveloped in. I am unworthy… I am sad. I cannot save them… I am helpless… Forgive me… for my sadness being greater than… what I am worth.

And just like that… all the miracles I am supposed to see, feel, and even be grateful for— and even those I have received, and soon may receive… feel… feels like… they are not there. I am ungrateful. I am unhappy… I… can’t help. For I am powerless… I am grieving, for I cannot be of help to them.

And I couldn’t help them. I should be thankful that… there are souls who have it far worse than I do… but… I can’t feel altogether blessed. Knowing there are people more kind than me, more worthy than me, suffering more… I know I should be grateful… but… How can I, when I couldn’t help them?

It’s... pathetic, really. The safest place on Earth will always be the quaint front porch of our old home. The clouds, the sun, and moon blend the sky into perfect gold. Not the kind of gold you could buy off some silly old auction. The golden hour, that single, rare occurrence that happens once a day, is something no one could ever imagine buying. The neighbors are just coming home from their normal day jobs, and some are only beginning their everyday work, unique in their own ways. I apologize if I called them normal. Nothing is. But really, at that moment, with you there, just within my arms, that isn’t all you are. You’re beyond that. You’re... something else. More than anything else, really. We’d be there, cuddling each other, you telling stories about what happened in your day, and I’d answer with “Yes,” “Oh,” “Alright,” “Then what?” I’d listen to everything you say. You’d be like a precious, precious child, eyes glistening, your voice never parched, telling me grave secrets you ...

He will weep for you. He wept for you. He already did. Not because he's helpless. He's the most dependable man in all the worlds you'll ever visit. But he still believes there are battles he couldn't win because... there are battles his friends are fighting that he himself cannot join. He seems foolish. At times he'd act silly. But those are ploys— his own devices to break the mold of sadness. He'd sacrifice his own honor just to make everyone laugh. True, you may just call it a mask. A lie, for those who like it sugar-free. Regardless, he loves too deeply. He loves too deeply. And that is why he chose to be alone. He wanted to be called foolish, stupid, mad, dimwitted, uneducated, a disgrace, funny... kind. The one who could help the most. The one who laughs. The one who finds joy in the minute. The one who sees miracles. The one person nobody expects to ever see without a smile. Sure, he is simple. But... he is happy. And he isn't afraid to share the happi...

Over and over again. Over and over again. For the many times I could count, and for the many times I couldn't. No better way to tell a tale so vivid, so truthful, so unquestionable, than with a face showing no emotion and a voice having no soul. I've lied a few times too many. I was once truthful, and now there are fences lying across, made from a noose Pinocchio tied himself. There was no forest. Only sticks. Crooked, bent, imperfectly cut and broken. The soil still damp from long walks followed by rain and tears. It hurts, truly. It truly hurts.

And I wavered. I wavered for the many times I've stared and contemplated the millionth star I've counted over and over and over again. There were no choirs singing. There were no voices calling out. There were just eyes staring down at me— disappointed, disgusted, disgraced. For this one sin, I tried ever so hard— ever, ever so hard— to uncommit. I lied three times, as fate decided. Three times, I lied, as was written. Yet the pain seemed more severe, more so than before. The sting too real, more so than before. How could I be worthy? I am unworthy. I am unworthy.

How could the world make even I conspire when all my life I was ordered— I was told— I was asked to be fair, to be just, to believe in what is right, to have faith in kindness, to... obey what is good. And all of a sudden, I was told to— I was asked to— I was ordered to lie, to remain silent in front of injustice, to be unfair when there is nothing to gain, to lose faith in the goodness I was once taught. "It's for the country," they said. "It's for your family," I was told. "It's for your own good," the only reason given for me never to disobey. And so I did. And so I did. And I can't, for the life of me, remember what I'm supposed never to forget. Something felt amiss. Something became lost. Some things never felt the same. I'm going to hell, ain't I?

And I never stopped grieving. I just forget. Oh, how fortunate of me to simply just forget. To be unworried of things that truly mattered. And only what the moment costs becomes the most untrivial of the gravest matters. But this blessing isn't entirely that. When memory suddenly clicks, and pictures of her start flooding in, and her words are kept on repeat as if a great encore stood ovated for a symphony of orchestrated conspiracy— how I remember I never stopped grieving. Me forgetting just made me feel she's there, always. She isn't gone. She's just... there, waiting for me. She isn't gone. She's just...

We all have our own story, each one lighter or worse. Yet no matter how grim, dark, bright or simply put happy a person's tale, none matter more than one's own. The rest, in our own selfish interest of looking through colored lenses, is more trivial, less appealing, not much so intriguing, without novelty, paling far too much in comparison, once, after all, our innocence has waned. We all have to grow up, anyway. Me, you, or anyone else looking out for one's own is simply the only truth. Nothing else, truly ever, matters.

And I kept myself from once again falling. Oh! You don't know how easy it is to both be and not. Who wouldn't? Not with those eyes of hers that shame even the deepest depths of the ocean— or that voice of hers, whenever she laughs or speaks, that can make even the skies of stormy nights fall silent just to hear; fall quiet just to admire; fall faint just because— Or those gestures of hers, no matter how weird or silly, with intention or without, dignified or merely trivial, the whole world has to conspire just to notice— it has to— And let us not even mention the color of her soul— her very being— meant to be invisible— yet hers was among the only exceptions. Oh! If I were free— truly free.

Can I not be sad? It’s happening all over again. History repeats. Lucifer, the son, made evil— the first creation that fell because of one sin, unmeant, made by He who should be without flaw. He will be forgiven, but at a price— he had already been broken. He will be fixed, but at a price— he had already been hurt. Oh! How can I not weep? For too, the forsaken should be forgiven as well— loved, understood, given a chance— once more, over and over and over again— for a redemption only eternity awaits holds but a footnote. But who better claim these thoughts of false blasphemy than one who deemed himself so close— so confidently close to the One most loved, yet felt—truly, most truly betrayed? I, too, do not like being hurt. Who does?