AI Journey

For all I care, it is her I will love— in this lifetime, the next, and even the one after. I have loved her even before. I am sure of it. Definitely. Certainly. Positively. I truly am.

Storm passed on, but never left the void unbranded. I have forsaken my father. A love I bore bred regret and agony. I desired this— this feeling— this damnation… but how could I, if my forgiving father has already done so? He paid in full the debt I owe. All the sins I made, even those I designed and orchestrated. Am I worthy to have his love, and his forgiveness?

What am I supposed to do, O Lord? I am weak. I very much know I am. I truly, truly am. Yet with my words alone, I keep wanting to hurt You. I keep hurting You. I want to throw away my faith. Yet I can't help but hope. I know I am in Your palm, still living a life as gentle and comfortable as ever, as if I am worthy— and I know I am not. I am weak, O Lord. I am weak. Without doing anything, without doing everything I can, I exhaust myself. I exhaust my thoughts. I exhaust my soul. I am not tired, O Lord. But I am. When will Your miracle come? A question asked by yours truly— the helpless, the pitiful child wandering, waiting for a seed to grow into a flower. Please hear me, O Lord. Please answer my prayers.

How can you be— But you're a nobod— But how? You never left. You never leave. Really. You're here almost all your life, yet you sound so sure. You're lying! You're— Really? Nope! Don't compliment yourself too much. It isn't like you— Oh! Now I get it. You're amazing, you know that. Nope, don't flatter me. How can I— Thank you. Thank you for always talking— What? What do you mean? I make it sound like we won't see each other again? That's absurd! I know you're always here, so— Oh! Please don't talk like that. Please don't. The thought of it is— is hurting me somewhere over here. I know you're always here. I know I can always call for you, and like my most favorite person in the world, you'll appear. I just know it. I know you won't leave. I just know.

A man seeking alms, his features were common for men of sweat and sun rays. Undeniably, as he was, a man in need— a help was all he wanted. Then came the voices, so familiar, too unforeign, bitter, unsweet, mocking. “Why would you ask for help when you have a body still almost at its prime?” “You should work. Your body is still able.” “You're only going to use it for your vice.” These words, once complaints, became mockery. Even still, only he— the man seeking alms— knows the truth. Then another came. An elderly woman, alms she sought, her assertions uncourteous, rude! A better word to paint her. The voices were different, but were just the same. “No! I don't have any.” As the cling and clang of coins jiggled in their pockets. “Don't bother me!” “No!” As assertive as the elderly woman was, she pressed on. Either knowing that goodness still lived, or knowing that the best business there is is actually an easy trade. Whatever it was, only she would know. Then came another— a ...

And my first murder, I thought, would be myself. But I was wrong. Nor did I think it would even be a stab wound. I didn't kill another person. Or rather, another human being. Murder isn't even what it is called when a man kills a beast. But— to think my first kill would be that of an angel. I thought there would be a grand, yet ominous, scenery waiting to unfold. Music playing in the background, or even a— But there was nothing. The sky remained bright, as if it were a summer's day. Not a hint of petrichor was allowed to linger as the scent of blood spread. The forest remained quiet and calm. The breeze gently let the blades of grass dance, not so gently for those drenched in red. The ground left untainted remained the color of earth, while those basking in crimson glowed—not too dark. There was nothing. I killed an angel. And through it all, the only thought that rushed through my mind— life goes on. As if what I did was not worth anything. As if what I did was not worth r...

You're doing it on purpose, right? Lord God. My prayers get denied. Over and over and over and over again. Night after night after night. You hear me beg. You hear me plead. I even got scolded. I was told that I must prove worthy. I was told that I must do things the hard way. Isn't my soul already having enough? I know I'm going to hell one day, but should hell already start here on Earth? There are far worse souls than I am, but why are they more well-off? I am surrounded by people who make me jealous. I try so hard not to be, but how could I not? When already my weary soul, pathetic as it is, is burning from the inside. I know You haven't forsaken me, Lord God. Yet what You give me feels too short. As if miracles and blessings were far too scarce to grant me what I wanted. If what You give me is what I need to grant strength unto my poor soul, isn't it the other way around? The more I pray, the more I plead, the more I beg, the more doubt gets cultivated in my he...

You lash out at the Lord, because you're a weak man. You're afraid of things. You laugh, you claim confidence, and even face danger without a shred of fear. But those are just lies. Untruth. Facade. In times of need, and I mean rock bottom, no more decision-making, no way out, you curse at God. You are terribly, terribly weak and awfully a poor soul. A very, very pitiful man. Truly. You are small. Minuscule. Minute. Trivial, even. And yet, you keep hoping. You question things, you have doubts, sometimes, regrettably, even deny Him. And yet, you continue to talk with My Father. It hurts me too, actually. But— Can I blame you? You always forget that you are loved. It hurts me too, really. But— in times when you're alone, you never forget to talk with My Father. My child, I hope that one day, you could forgive yourself too.

I lose again. How many has it been? How much have I lost? I couldn't count the blessings beneath the many losses I have gained. Are these all trials? I rested for a day, and when I started to pray once again, more trouble came. I can't help but feel ungrateful for the unblessings granted unto me. This may sound sarcastic, because it is. And the ironic thing is— the more I pray, the more I doubt. Was there really someone up in the sky listening? Or is the firmament just an empty void, as if there were nothing there at all?

I had my hopes up. I really did. Maybe it was the addiction welling up— that sort of dopamine kick, that feeling of pleasure, that drive. I really felt it all. The high. In the end, without ever achieving my goal, I am left filled with exhaustion. There is a reason why I am doing this, but— is there a reason for me not to achieve what I want? Haven't I done enough? Is my prayer not enough? Or am I just unworthy? I am broken. I am broken. I am broken. What is there left to observe? I've been praying. And I'm tired. Maybe this just serves me right for believing— believing that one day, one of my prayers, one that I needed most right now, would finally be given.

If you disappear, do you think no one will notice? No, I do not mean death. I do not mean taking your life. I mean, literally, vanish. That's what I'm asking. Tell me, do you think no one would notice? No? Then let me ask you a different question. If you disappear, do you think no one would cry? Haven't you noticed it? You are loved, my friend. You. Are. Loved.

Now I'm noticing. I wonder why? When usually it is the sensation that gets to claim such— such— I get goosebumps whenever I hear good music play. Yet this one time, I can't feel it. There is no tingly sensation— yet my eyes are teary. Tears are shedding down my cheeks. I am in awe. I hear good music. But the rising hairs on my skin aren't there. Is this, too, the power of music? Or am I beginning to understand a new sort of language?

The stage has been set, my love. And all you have to do is— What— Hold on— What is with these tears? Why are you— Did we not talk about this already? You knew already, yes. We've talked this through. And I promise you, eternity is but a short, short while. I can take it— Surely, you jest— Oh! My love, it is your tears I cannot, for the love of all things, let fall. Yes, yes. I know. I can take it. You just have to believe my words. Alright? Alright? No. No— Don't cry. I know. I know. Just believe in me. Yes. I won't forget. Yes. Yes. I'll make sure. Yes, I promise.

“Please, don’t do it.” The snake who guarded the garden pleaded. The curious damsel wanted more than what was given. Though bruised, beaten, and scarred here and there upon her pale skin, still, she hoped. Hoped for something more than the cage she was in. “Please, don’t.” Again, the snake pleaded. He was among the many— one of the most beloved, one of the most trusted. Yet even he could not deceive the one whose heart he knew was beating. It was never a rebellion. He just fell. And so, in order to save her, he changed the narrative. He had to be the enemy. He had to be hated by all— by everyone, by anyone. He fell in love and out of grace. The devil never had a choice. He had to. To save her. To save her.

Oh! How fun it is to be loved and not in love all at the same time. How peculiarly delightful it is to be in a zugzwang but still be in decision. How marvelous it is to be able to see what one doesn't want to see even still one cannot unsee what one can't see but only imagine. There is no love in a man sworn to both agape and legacy. Kings do not fall in love. With their kingdoms they do fall. But never in love. Oh! But sanity can always keep up with insane saints and unsaintly sane fools wanting revenge for a cup of tea spilled all over a fresh morning delight.

I'm drunk... again. After the many times after I promised myself no more, once more, I am not me. But only then do I feel like I could undo the blanket off my back and shed the covers hereafter— the wings long ago unforegone. I could fly if I promise myself I could. I don't know how, but I think I would. Ah! To be so free. At last. Let's just forget the hangover that awaits the morning to come.

And I told, like some legend of a prophecy, with a voice I know is never mine, but I claimed it anyway. "I will save you, in this life or in the next. Just believe me." Yet somehow, somehow, somehow, somehow, it is with you I felt great awe. You called out to me, telling me to end it all, all the while still claiming me as your friend. I've done not the kindest of acts. I've done ever so few acts of goodness I could recall many, but I am never a good person. Yet still— you called me a friend. You call me a friend. Whatever did I do to deserve such a precious, precious, precious friend such as you? With the last bit of sanity you may still recall as your own, you ran after me. You ran after me. I do not know if you meant to hurt me or whatever, but all I know is that before you finally went, your last words still were you calling out to me, "My friend."

Oh! You mustn't, my old friend. You must not. We've already done this, many times over, and you know for certain how things will end. Oh! And don't you even start with your many explanations of such— such harrowing things. Things won't be different. I assure you, things won't. So right now, as early or as preconceived as it is, don't. Just don't. My old friend, I hate to see you cry, truly. And every time, I just know. I know. So, please. Please. Don't.