AI Journey

And I just realized, it’s September already. My father’s birth month. My grandmother’s birth month. It’s been what, fifty, seventy years for them, and I’m still me... I think? I can’t remember. It has been only a few years, or two, but I know my smile today isn’t the same as it once was. I’m still writing, though. It’s something I can be proud of— that I kept up. I think? I don’t know anymore. Perhaps these few years and months taught me to smile genuinely without being genuine at all, some sort of mask that has become a habit. This— I can tell with a pain in my heart— I can’t be proud of. But I think I’ve become quite good at it. Such a tragic life I’m currently living. But as the saying goes, these too shall pass. Maybe in the next days, months, or years, or maybe later, I’d be— My answer to the question, “Are you happy?” would change.

And maybe, much like the rest of them who sought me out, thinking there is still something left in me— but I, with a cold heart, feign unnotice. And they must have thought, What a heartless person this is. Maybe we are all God's sympathy personified. And we all think, What a heartless God we have. Always. May we all, one day, be forgiven for being without mercy to the One who needed mercy the most.

His help grew scarce. He's depleted. He couldn't give everything when himself he couldn't give anything. But on and on, the prayer kept flooding— like a tide that ebbs, like water from a dam after the reservoir overflows and the gates are opened. Drowning. Yet still, somewhere in between, there remains the wanting when there is nothing left to give. Is this the reason why sometimes the sky feels empty? Why a poor soul, in desperation, prays— and in desperation, lashes out— when still, no miracle happens? Does He too think these thoughts: What can I do? They need me, but there is nothing I can give them. All I can do is listen, and alongside them, be sorrowful and weep. I am the omnipotent. I am the omniscient. But I cannot save everyone.

Am I evil for wanting? I plucked a chord, and a tune echoed within me— a tune hummed quietly, in an emotionless sound. Supposedly, there was no harmony to resonate, but there was. I whistled. I blew as if giving life outward— a melody so lifeless, so awkward, supposedly music that could not be, but there was. And in my other hand, a noose, tightly wrapped and bundled, as if it were the most important thing— second only to the unconditional love that was given: warm, encompassing, and a matter of the gravest consequence. What should I do?

Once again, I lashed out at You, God. On and on and on, life continues to be unfair. Damned diligence is a lie. Damned faith is a lie, too. The saying that goes, “Just believe. Things will pass. Better days will come.” These are all lies, too! I am forsaken. I am unloved. How much more goodness must I do? How much more pain must I suffer? When will I be heard? When will I be answered? Haven’t I already had enough? Help me, Father. Please.

Maybe the reason why Hope was inside Pandora's Box is because Humanity glorifies the most trivial of minute things, they cling to the moment most fleeting as if it signified the most impossible, incomparably longer than eternity, a matter of the gravest of grave consequence. As if mere mortals could stand side by side with beings they were deemed unworthy of, as if they too were legends, worthy of being immortalized, and though long gone, their tales would surely never be forgotten. As if their names were always written in the epithet of eternity, written in ink with vastly more glow. But what's wrong with hoping anyway? We never know when the last card we draw when we gamble might be kissed by Lady Luck, or when the next turn of the casino slots might yield the next jackpot. We will certainly never know— unless we hope.

And they never noticed you too were struggling; you too were in pain; you too were exhausted; you too had so many dreams, yet you had to deny every opportunity; you too sometimes failed to notice them, but later on, when— when realization struck, you regretted it; you too are also living for the first time. But you, who first realized this, should know who is—

And he saw no fault in me. His smile was genuine. He was definitely happy for me. I know. His eyes can't tell lies, and in their depths, I was certain. Although... I can't say the same. I— I was never a good kid growing up. I did terrible things— horrible, horrible things. And yet, he's still proud of me. Like an occult believer— a fanatic. I— I am certain I've let him down more times than I could count, more times than I could remember. Yet somehow, time and time again, through all my fuck-ups and stupidity, he'd always be there. His eyes were sometimes disappointed. I definitely felt those— but never, not once, in all the days I can remember, could I say that he stopped supporting me. Maybe it's him that I'd call my first murder— my Abel. The moment I grew horns and went astray from his dreams for me. But like Lazarus, he came back. Somehow, as if, throughout all my life, I had never truly disappointed him. I'm going to hell, ain't I? I'd accep...

Tired. Bruised. All around aching. But after all this time, Finally. Finally. Finally!! Yet once again, A promise... But who am I, actually, to have this sense of... Oh! My Eurydice! If not for you, I would be kin to Midas, Sisyphus, and Tantalus. Just hold on to my hands as we wade through this eternity of... Not hell. Not imprisonment. How could I describe such a moment with you as torment? Save for these shackles that bind me, keeping me from seeing you. Oh! But you'll always sing for me, right, Eurydice? I... I don't care about the voice I hear. I won't believe the blasphemy they speak. I won't... Hopefully. As long as I can touch your hands and hear your voice, I won't... falter. I won't be deceived. But for the love of all Hades, when can I finally quench my thirst to see you? Oh! My lovely Eurydice. Please... I beg of you. Keep me sane... Keep my faith in you un... Please don't sully my trust. Please. Please. Please!! Be real. Please let this love be ...

And I keep telling myself, Things will get better. Things will get better. Over and over again. I never truly believed it. I know it's just a tale I keep telling myself, so I can imagine a kinder tomorrow. But I am certain— I surely am— that if I were ever to answer myself honestly, I'd wake with a black eye and a splitting headache to match.

Haven't you realized it yet? Or perhaps you've simply forgotten. The universe does not merely listen. The universe does not merely recognize. The universe conspires. Take heart! The calluses on your hands, the blisters on your skin you never realized you had earned, the headaches that kept returning, the dark circles beneath your eyes, and even the strand or two of white hair that seemed to appear out of nowhere— these are your proof. The milestones. The trophies. The insignias. The medals you have every right to wear with pride. Take heart. Rest. You deserve it.

"So... what happened?" Robert asked. Allan lowered his head. "I'm... doing the best I can with what I have. I'm building a bridge—the one I believe is the safest and surest to cross." "Then why are you sad?" "I..." "You don't have to fool me with that smile of yours. Your eyes say everything. I've already seen enough to know your heart is troubled. So tell me... what weighs so heavily on it?" "I've been having doubts about the path I've chosen. I... I don't know if what I'm doing is right anymore." Robert nodded. "But this was your best judgment, wasn't it?" "I believe so." "No reservations? No holding back? Did you truly give it everything you had?" "...Yes. With what I have, I believe I did." "Then why not let the universe take care of the rest?" Allan let out a quiet laugh. "Does that work... even in business?" Robert smiled. ...