AI Journey

Please stay with me, at least for tonight or until— I fall asleep. Right now, there are two things I fear: never waking up, and tomorrow. I won't lie. The sight of the folding knife on top of my bedside drawer seems all too alluring. Enticing. Seductive. Right now, I'm fine. Really. But I don't know if— There's this girl. I don't know, but it just sort of happened. Maybe? But then there is life, all too cruel, unjust, unfortunate, as if the luck of a gambler unkissed by Lady Luck. Then there are my parents. I don't deserve them. Though I always— I'm spoiled through and through. I hate being one, but I can't deny it. I am! Yet my understanding of life is as vast as a pond to a tiny cell, yet so little, incomparably so, when measured against an ocean. It makes me— it made me— wear masks. To understand life as something far too vast for the common man. I hate that— I am a paradox unto myself. And I know, I'm a hypocrite. All this shit. Seriously, as if—...

Too old. Too old for his voice not to croak as he forced the air from his lungs and made the echoes shudder. But it didn't. His grown beard and mustache traced the smile hidden beneath. His head was balding, akin to a forest that had recently caught fire. His eyes were still burning— the possible cause of the forest fire. But none of that mattered. It was his songs, first and foremost, by which he would be remembered. He knew this. He was happy about it. He wrote the lyrics, sang the song, time and time again, until his days grew silver and his hair grew sparse. Still, he could sing the melody. He could claim it as an anthem. Though old, he could still sing his own song.

And all the while, the poems appeared, kept piling up, and with my own breath, I let them live. She never knew I gave birth to daughters and sons, made up of letters and verses. I just so wish she'd never find out— that both my poetry and my feelings are becoming real. I'm just happy she is.

It's funny how these silly conversations are all happening inside my head. And the laughter I burst out, the smile I give away, and perhaps the glint that sparks in my eyes are what tell me that my feelings may be real. But it's all make-believe. Even she and I are nothing but fancies. Whims that sort of just happened out of— a fit that just wanted to be real. Oh! Reality can be so fickle and harsh, all the same, sometimes—most of the time. She and I simply cannot be.

"Are you tamed now?" I don't know. "The smile on your face, each time you reread the letters she sent, says you are." Does it? "It does." But her stories were just that— "You're tamed." I—I don't know what to say. I don't think it's like that. "But you are." How can you be so— Oh! Oh! I see it now. I guess I am. "Are you happy?" Are we still playing make-believe, or is it for real now? "What do you think?" I don't know. I feel like— "Can you tell yourself truly— can you say it out loud, that you love her?" I love— I— I don't think I'm tamed yet. "Keep at it."

I— "You were not tamed." What do you mean, not tamed— that conversation you had with that little guy? "Hush! That is not how you speak with my—" Bah! As if I should care! A friend— My— Look, someone very dear to me was crying, and I— "There's nothing in between you. Her crying is the sort of thing that could happen to just about anyone. You shouldn't go beyond what is— If you want to cry for her, then cry. If you want to offer advice, go ahead. But limit yourself. Set boundaries. Between you, there is nothing." How could you say— "You! Were! Not! Tamed! A few days and a week or so mean nothing. You do not love her." But— "You. Do. Not. Love. Her. It is not love. It is not love."

You went and joined the away team. You felt betrayed. You felt let down. You felt disappointed. You felt— Everything that someone like you should never feel. You did a lot of things for everyone. You did great things. You were an icon! You still are. So tell me, can you hear it? Oh! That isn't rain. That isn't the tides of the sea, either. It's your name. They're all chanting your name. They're all cheering for you. The crowd is singing words left unsaid— left unheard. They love you! They— We truly, truly love you. Oh! How exhilarating it must be to hear your own name chanted like an anthem. You are loved here. Here, you are loved! Though not by everybody, there are many who truly do! Though you left, just remember that there will always, always be a place for you here.

I feel like— we should— I should stop playing house with you. I'm too old to be playing make-believe heroes on romantic adventures and thrilling fantasies. I'm too old to be the knight in shining armor while you're the heroine I am in— I'm too old. And I'm very tired. I can't be committed to— You deserve better— You deserve someone more real. I am just a dreamer. Nothing more.

And I just couldn't let me be able to write you poetry, for once I did so, all the— I would be hurt again. I hate getting hurt, really. I was too sheltered when I was still young to fully understand what— I don't really like the feel of it. It would be like watching paint dry with my life depending on it. I crave the spark. I'm alive, and I need that certain motion!— that certain serendipitous— I just don't like— My soul, though still young, has grown too old for this— this— thing.

I kept the faith, O Lord, yet why am I still hunted? Am I still unfaithful, even though I— Do I still need to argue? Whatever reason I give, I know for certain— the skies are still empty. And all the world will say, "Look! That saint is being tested!" Am I? Am I being forged? Or am I—

The peak of graduation day’s party— the slow dance has started. Like teams before a game begins, groups of peers huddle in one place, then another, like fireworks gathered beautifully in a blank firmament, quietly reaching a turning point before the explosion. The few who joined the music held each other’s hands tightly, as though the world would end tomorrow, though tomorrow would be just another Sunday morning. The whispers ebbed and flowed like the tides of an ocean, reaching only a few souls who could hear each other across the shore. There were tears, too. There were definitely tears. You were among your peers. There were no tears in your eyes, only a sparkle. A new age was coming. Your smile was visible only through the guise of your silhouette. Your eyes did not glisten, nor did your voice change in pitch. You understood the saying: life goes on. Instead of saying goodbye to the others with tearful eyes, you, like those protagonists in stories, wore a nonchalant bravado and said...

It's— my mother whom I could recount best, who cried for me the most. She and I were more alike than my father and I. I hated this truth, but still, it's the truth. I cannot deny this. We both have the temperament and the same patience, to the point that when I see myself get agitated, I picture my mother as me and begin to question— would I have been able to be a better son? I hate that I am not. Yet, for the life of me, it is me, through her, that I have hurt the most. The reflection in her eyes every time I— every time she showed her love is— Oh! How I wish I could relive and undo everything.

I— I am sad to think that it would be my father who would be the first one to knock on my door as he grew concerned, as I had neither gone down for dinner nor woken up early as I always do; to find silence where my music usually filled my lively room, as it always did— but no more; to continue knocking until, by midday, he finally pried the door open; to find a body kept afloat— I— He will find his son floating in midair, eyes closed, as if meditating through all eternity. The son will find the answer to the most basic and trivial question, to the most arduous and elusive riddle that the living have spent their lives seeking. He will— gently lift his son's feet to— catch him as he used to when he was still a wee bit little. He will be most careful— though his hands are shaking, his sobs growing louder, his eyes wide with— He will appear the most unfatherly to his son. He will look like a mess, but— he'll catch his son back with dignity, with strength, with that firm expression ...

I— I was never born to love letters. I hate long reads. Truly. But it's the thrill of adventures that— made me fall in love with poetry. That ecstasy you feel when the right memory just clicks with the right word, or perhaps the rightest melody. The goosebumps are real, the tingling sensation that erupts from the tips of our skin to our forehead. It feels as if our whole body is lucid, fully aware, fully awake. But— I had always gone on adventures without stories to recount or recall. I once lived all the heroic epics inside my head. At least, back then, I was the hero— not some foreign, otherworldly, dimensional creature that audiences the main protagonist. Back then— I am. Along with the heroes I can call my friends. With my aloof mind, I rarely wonder where they are— except for the young hero, who is me, no more.

To you, little one, A reflection of me when— miracles were plenty and rainbows were genuine. I wish for you, one day, to be happy. But— don't ever, ever, ever stay too long. I've never been to war, yet here I am, always engaging in the silent battles of every moment that— life throws at me anew. And the worst of all the skirmishes are the duels after midnight. Your body may be rested, but your soul would not. I beseech you, hear my advice: don't stay too long. Though it is better to be strong, most importantly, be kind. The world may be cruel, but you, as the artist, must strive to make it beautiful— you, the artificer, the chosen one, the one— most beloved. Before I forget, never let it slip from your mind: you are loved. You may not notice it, but you are. So be kind, be strong. Be happy.

It is my unbravery that oftentimes holds me back. My bravado is just the façade I built upon the layers of peers I count. Although truly, I am in love, many times over. The debates I wish to pursue remain unpursued, for I do not wish to argue. It is my comfort in peace that makes me reluctant to confront an adversary, choosing instead to shrug things off. A simple no would have served me better in my pursuit of true peace, and yet I feign weakness in my resolve to hold no grudges. I am— cowardly for not pushing back. The ebb of the sea is far easier than the struggle of holding myself back. Oh, how beautifully reddish it would have been if I could speak without fear and give voice to the peace in my mind that always falls to pieces.

What if I left after graduation? What if I never made it impossible to find me? What if I did better then? What if I pursued a different career? Instead of sooty and grimy, I'd be holding a pen. Instead of work clothes, I'd be wearing choking suits, so elegant, tidy, clean, dignified. Instead of my back arched and soaked in sweat, I'd be at a desk, working through papers and files. Instead of sleepless nights, wondering what kind of life I'd be living, all the while writing stories and poetry, I'd be dreaming and sometimes reading books for leisure. What if all this made me happy? What if it did not? What if— Would I still be me? Would I be happy? What if I— were braver? More courageous— more in love. Would I have confessed, instead of falling over and over into a scene made hopeless, as the romantic that I am? I wonder how— maybe she's better off without me. Although I can't say the same for me. What if I did better? But all these what-ifs are truly too lat...

The answer is clear. It will never change. The Count's wish were true; it is the only truth. I, who have relived a thousand, a million stories in which I was never the hero, would rather forget them all and finally rest. Oh! I only wish I had never been made to love life so much that I cling more to loving than to living itself. Oh! How poor my soul would have been if only I— remembered nothing. May you count the rest in peace.

Elsewhere, just not here. I know places, but— I doubt they know me still. I used to cry, but— even my tears are different. The spark in my eyes is no more, and neither is the real smile that breaks through my facade of sadness. My happy face is now the mask. I— I just want to go someplace else, where I— I'm tired. Really, really tired. I just want to— find a soft spot for me to lay. I'm tired of lying. Anywhere but here.

I was angry back then— furiously mad. A big shot, too— not really. But I know the feel. As if I could swallow the whole world in just one gulp. Oh, how wrong I was, a big fish beneath the well or a big frog in a small pond. I thought I was— the last of my kind, sort of like, the only one of my extinct species, the last survivor of my race. the one who's alone atop— but much like the prince's rose, alone beneath its glass dome, i am alone, yes, but i am not— one of a kind. The feeling of isolation grows more intense knowing full well i am among the few, yet one of many. I am never special. It was a lie i made myself believe. There's no magic, no secret, no great otherworldly being that guides and dictates me. It's just me. Nothing else—

Through a forest, I happened upon a veiled stranger, her neck adorned with a golden necklace that glittered in the dim light. She was covered in a tattered robe that smelled of incense and smoked iron, its stench burrowing deep into my lungs. She introduced herself as a goddess, the divinity of both the lost and lost things. I've been here many times before. I couldn't call myself lost. But perhaps I was lucky to be graced, at least once, by the presence of a goddess— though her form was far too foreign for me to comprehend. I bowed my head in respect and went on my way. You see, I was in a hurry, and— "Halt!" cried the goddess of the lost, her voice now laced with fury. I stopped. I didn't know why she had grown angry, but surely I must have done something wrong, something born of my own ignorance. I turned around, bowed, and apologized. "Are you not going to ask for help in reclaiming something you've lost?" She asked. But I, the dullest of men, co...

If tomorrow, I will die, I wouldn't want to be drunk tonight. I wouldn't want to unfeel every moment of me being alive. I would be more lucid of the most trivial things. I would dance to the music not many can easily hear. I would rather be called mad, a fool, be laughed at— their mockery meaning nothing to me, who is liberated. Everything I do would be genuine. But of course, I would be sad too— I would be afraid too— but that would be only at the very, very last moment. It would remain invisible throughout. The sunset this evening would truly be an extended golden hour. The dusk would come late, and so would my eyes. I would bask in all of it. My smile would be a paradox, but it would definitely be genuine— true, pure, no longer human.

Here's the truth, though, we, children of letters, know far too much about everything, both the niche and the superficial. We can be experts in one thing yet fools in another. We are the ones who have threaded many lives, understood many tears that fell, caught glimpses of tales unknown even to those who live them, the very souls who become our fairy tales. But do not be mistaken. We are no gods and goddesses. We simply are great liars. The vast ocean is the depth and ebb of the truths we forge to be true. And above all, it is this world we live in of which we are immigrants. It is elsewhere we belong. And pay heed, if ever you come across us as romantics: we both are and aren't. A cruel paradox. A remainder of both cruelty and beauty. I apologize. Truly— Although, I am unapologetic of being.

What does an angry God look like? Were His eyes burning with fury, His glare piercing through not just flesh, but the very core of one's being? Was His forehead arched in such terrible eminence that the earth itself began to quake— Vibrating—Shaking—Convulsing— Were His cheeks and the corners of His eyes drawn tight? Were His lips parted? Did His mouth reveal the viciousness of His teeth? Would you be afraid? Or would His face be nothing like that? "Oh! How could you... make Me do this?" Without another thought, these were the words etched upon the face of an angry God. His eyes were sparkling, there were tears dripping. Overflowing. But He had to keep a straight face. There was not a single frown upon His face. Just tears. His face was long, His mouth hidden behind His aching hands. Shaking—Trembling— Sobbing— He was all too aware. For in moments of anger, a God becomes a paradox. He was holding back, as much as He could, something that could not be— Himself.

I— I am never a man of faith. Doubt rules my beliefs. And logic, too, but— when it comes to religion, I never am. I love reading, but the Bible is never one I'd pick up casually— normally. Yet— I believe in goodness— or maybe, I'm just one of the few fortunate ones who were surrounded by goodness, and so— without being all that faithful, without knowing much of good faith— I can be preachy. Call me a hypocrite, but— I should be truly grateful to them. My parents, my teachers, my friends— all of them who became a part of my life. Even without having a belief, even without— I know for a fact I'm going to hell anyway, but I wouldn't want, while I'm alive, to live in hell. Life is beautiful. It doesn't have to be ugly. Or so says a famous virtuoso.

"I'm happy so long as she is." He was definitely lying. His lips were arched, though underneath, they weren't. The glistening in his eyes said it all. "I'm happy. Truly. I really am." He was hurting. His lips were shaking, the smile fading. So were his tears. "I'm not hiding anything. I-I'm definitely n-not. W-Why do you want to make me cry?"

The crowd was cheering. He, too, was smiling— until suddenly, the smile faded. He turned around, against the tide of praise. He waded through the people, who were all the more eager to touch even the hem of His garment. His eyes were far too distant from the merry souls nearby, all eager to sing His name. There was sadness in the depths of His eyes. Finally, after forcing His way through a forest of reaching arms, He reached the place He had sought. "I'm sorry I'm late." That was the first thing He said. The people there were surprised. They were the ones who had welcomed Him first. They never thought themselves worthy of being graced by His presence. Yet there He was. "Teacher!" One voice called out, then another. Again and again, they bowed and paid their respects. Except for one. The one person He had come to apologize to. "I'm sorry I'm late." He stuttered. So unlike Who He was. There was a flaw in His voice. Broken. Hurt. Displeased. V...

But what if God is the one who's actually tired? Hold on a minute. I am not belittling Our Lord God, nor am I against the faith. I am simply looking at a different perspective. Oh! Please forgive me, and strike me down if what I say is sacrilegious. But I am, first and foremost, a human— mind you! If not the most, then one of the most curious of our kind. Now, indulge me in my query. It is not just us who grow exhausted. What about Him? Heed me, mind you! Let me finish! I can tell you're questioning my folly. How can someone without limits ever know what it means to be limited? But that is not my subject. What I ask about is the exhaustion of the spirit. Has no one heard the stories of the Bible? The tales are filled with tragedy, and at their center are always men and women— characters given breath by the One who made us all. And yet, I believe, not one of them was forsaken. Even so, their stories were not spared from tragedy. Over and over and over, He builds the perfect— Oh!...

Oh! Please! Do not call me a kind soul. I am not! I'd laugh at you if you tripped and fell. If you stumbled over the simplest explanation, I'd be the first to notice. I'd even call you out when you made a mistake. Oh! Mind you! I will make you realize what you've done wrong. And don't go telling anybody I— I suddenly stopped when someone else insulted you. I— I don't know. It must be karma or whatever it is, but it hurts when people look down on you. But don't say it's because we're kindred spirits, we are not! It's just that— there is this unexplainable, bitter feeling that aches inside me whenever someone belittles you. And who told you I cried for you? I never! I— I was sad because— it was my fault for not being... Enough. There! You heard it. I'm sad when I can't meet the expectations others set for me. What do you mean I cried for someone else? I don't! It's just that— I hate this aching, bitter feeling of being powerless. Ne...

We are like dogs, everyone and anyone afflicted with my sickness— Nope, let's not call it sickness. It was never a disease to begin with; circumstance is a better word. We dream things both in sleep and in passing, we fall in love, too easily and too deeply, but we try to thrive on spite. We know all too well of so many unfamiliar things, but the trivial remains too foreign to us. We live on enthusiasm, but much like a freshly lit candle on a drearily and wickedly windy day, our spark extinguishes too easily. Oh! But don't be disheartened. We thrive, and if we do it with all our hearts, we will see to it that it's done, though we do it in messes, at moments almost too soon, or sometime later, only to regret it. We breathe things in so easily, but much like the breath, our depth remains too shallow. We do not go too wide, but I, for one, know we dive deep. We are dogs. Them and I, maybe you, too? But whatever— we are too free-spirited to be contained within a single vessel c...

To dull the senses, what else is there to it!? I've had its taste. The coldness suffocates me every time, and yet, the numbness that follows— that is what keeps me going. No! It isn't supposed to inspire. It never should. But to me, and I dare say, to everyone else who does so, we do it to be free, to feel more alive, to forget, at least until the dizziness wears off, that we are only human. It brings us closer to those who dwell on Olympus. Those who always mock us— we, the trivial; we, the slaves to dreams; all of us who are simply living. What are dreams, anyway? I've long ago dug their graves, and maybe in a few days, or less, I'll come to visit. I've outgrown my once-held dreams. I am no longer in love. It's hard to say I ever could be again, but I do know that everything after the first heartbreak is simply superficial— a direct mockery of the truth! Oh! What am I saying? I guess the booze is kicking in. The spirits are making me high, and my thoughts are ...

They will sing anthems to your poems. They will be songs. They will be anthems. I promise you that. They will dance to whatever the songs tell them. They will name their dances after your poetry. Your words will be remembered. You will reach the eyes, the ears, the hearts of those who truly need them. And like a soul kindred to theirs, you will be a chameleon, a mirror to whatever they imagine. One day, you will be recognized, like how a fisherman sees storm even in the calmest of days; one day, you will be recognized, like how a little child realizes their mom or dad were always right beside them. One day— one day.

We all are barely holding on. We are all barely holding. The tiniest, tiniest thread called hope clung desperately to our pinkies. We are all blessed with fortune to be engraved in the moment, covered in sweat, grit, and the tiniest bit of hope and doubt all mixed together. We all just want to survive. Really. Who doesn't? But the tiredness just keeps on letting up— as if, as if— some sort of disease, a fish bone that won't— The same as everyone, clinging, holding on, not letting go. We're all just thorns in someone else's throat: you, I, and everyone else. It's just that some taste differently, and that's why this sort of discomfort survives. Let it be. Hold on. Live! Although— I have this inkling of naught.

And yet, what more? what yet more? nothing. nothing. awake, at last. finally, awakened. no more. no more. Dreary dreams, dregs and drudgery. any more? any more? there's nothing left in me, emptied, hollowed, drained. i have opened my eyes, and my soul remains sleepy. a mere moment, meant to last at the very least, an infinity. It did. It did. But I'm awake through it all. I'm awake. No sleep for me, the one meant for dreams. the empty title of a dreamer, undeservedly given. I'm spent. Please, no more. I give up. Rest. True rest. Sleep. Let me be.

I dreamt of an explosion. A ticking time bomb, awaiting its demise. Yet, however, I felt calm. As if there was nothing to be afraid of. I sure am supposed to be afraid. Yet, I wasn't. There was this sort of calm— the kind there is when bees go buzzing in a line all over. And I followed as well. But I wasn't the least bit fearful. Maybe I knew it was a dream. Maybe I knew neither was real— not even the knife I tried to feel at the point of my neck. I am supposed to be afraid. I shouldn't be. I shouldn't be.

And they all gave up. Already. I— I was— I felt betrayed, honestly. I truly felt like a knife had been smacked into my back. Out of nowhere. Maybe it was already written. The signs are probably everywhere. But— Here I am. Despite all my notions of disbelief, contradictions, being against all probable chances— I am hoping. But— they already gave up. What more will there be to it? I am a man of so little faith. I question things. I doubt. I am mad a lot because of my unluck, but— what's the point then? They've all given up already. I don't want to. I really don't. I'm still hoping, mind you. But is there really any more sense to keep the faith? Here I am, an unbeliever, yet— a weird twist— I really don't want to. Is this what that little girl felt when she realized she was the only one who brought an umbrella after everyone kept praying for rain? Reality is... such a very strict, fickle, and cruel thing. I know. Everyone does. But— in every good story I've rea...