Writing & Creative Writing

Day #6: Ray of life

I emerged from Sol, brought into existence without the involvement of any organism. It was the essence of pure creation.

For the sake of simplicity, you can call me “Photon.” Fundamental, yet infinitely complex, I am devoid of reason, yet somewhere, someone or something might imagine the tales of my odyssey.

In the act of pure creation, I was hurled from a nuclear reaction into the vast expanse known as space. With endless paths before me, my trajectory seems preordained by unknown forces. Another facet of pure creation. Evading Mercury, then Venus, I near the planet some of us term “the cursed one”. Cursed, perhaps, for life blossomed there by sheer chance, at the perfect distance from Sol, amid a delicate balance of elements.

In the dance of pure creation, I collide with a water molecule, imparting my energy and transforming. Do I cease to be Photon, or does my essence endure? The molecule ascends as vapor, forms clouds, and returns as rain, traversing the planet’s face before joining the ocean’s embrace.

My kin, the photons, maybe taking credit from other entities or what you might simply call “radiations”, propel all these dynamics: the winds, the atmospheric pressure shifts, the magnetic fields born from planetary rotation and celestial interplay. Complex, yet elemental. An infinite tapestry woven by compounded forces, all manifesting the marvels of pure creation.

As you gaze upon the sea, recognise it as pure creation in motion. Look then to Sol, your shadow, your hands…everywhere, creation is at play.
So, create. Leave a legacy, a mark to be remembered. For in some form, even beyond what’s called death, your essence will remain. A piece of the perpetual creation that will inspire someone, something, somewhere to create what was never creation but transformation, elevation, transcendence.

Day #7: American Dream

We are disciples of the exponential; we are incapable of growing anything linearly. Apart, maybe, for regrets, excuses and lies we tell ourselves.
Time is limited, and as we consume it, the pressure to make something out of it mounts.

Everything inflates while the time at your disposal deflates.

That pressure can make or break you. Alternatively, you could be so unaware of it that you lead a happy life.
I chose violence, or violence chose me, what is the difference anyway?

They say the mind is our own worst enemy. You can live in the moment and enjoy yourself, or you can dwell on what you should or shouldn’t have done, drowning in the “what-ifs” and pondering all the Sliding Doors that lead to your Final Destination.

If you married your high school sweetheart, you might find yourself seeking a lover. If you’ve been a considerate saver and investor, you might indulge in a sports car, perhaps a vintage one, or both.
The same applies to organisations and countries; ultimately, they are composed of humans with herd-like behaviour.

Boom and bust cycles may be a feature, not a bug.

The virtuous are punished and tortured until they are rewarded. Most perish, but those who withstand will rebuild in the aftermath of the bust.
Yes, because we need the fittest. We cannot rely on those whom nature has selected for elimination.
The old lady knows. Yes, she’s a she and proud of it, you can just tell. Look around yourself and smell some flowers.

Pain is just a signal until it becomes noise.

You can be the turkey, or you can be the cockroach. You can enjoy the steak in the Matrix or the watered-down porridge in real life.
Like it or not, even if you consume the metaphorical steak, you still need to eat in the real world. Keep that in mind, and keep your soul strong and your mind stronger.

Beneath the dust, you’ll find beauty. Don’t be buried under it.
It’s always brightest before sunset.

By the way. Nice rides. They scream of opportunities, dreams, and “hell yeah!”.
The American dream. What happened to it?

Day #8: Boutonniere

For the first time in more years than I could remember, I was attending a party — or rather, a formal celebration that actually held meaning for me.

At the entrance, we were given floral arrangements — “boutonnieres,” they were called, or something of the sort. I stopped my Eva424 just in time, just before it could complete the answer to my visual prompt, having noticed that it might be a French term. It was odd, but my personal assistant was still malfunctioning, causing the neural interface to trigger a scent like burnt plastic whenever I prompted anything that might return a French word. That’s why I stopped seeing Claude. I liked the guy, he was kindly teaching me wood carving in exchange for some bow fishing but that sensation was unbearable.

Fortunately, I no longer dared ask about water desalination, as it caused me to collapse face-first to the ground — some issue with losing control of my knees, apparently. I had compiled a list of topics to avoid, which was torturous because my thoughts drifted there anyway. What’s the use of an assistant if it can’t assist? Sure, it helped with most tasks, but it also made me more inept as a human, more dependent on a mere ornament, an implant.

Receiving such an adornment for my vintage tuxedo from a bearded fellow who resembled a younger version of myself — albeit from several, perhaps seven, decades ago — felt peculiar. The only difference was his attire: a floral dress and high heels, complemented by prominent mammal prosthetics. I had never ventured into such fashion, despite the trends. Darker colours suited me, and lacking any implants other than my Eva424, there was nothing flashy about me apart from the scar I got from the bear attack that also damaged my Eva424. I could have had my scar removed, easily, but I liked it. I felt more in touch with my nature, whatever that meant.

“Enjoy yourself, see you around” — he told me, with his altered voice.
I smiled back and left. I couldn’t recall the last time I saw a real woman or heard a feminine voice that wasn’t AI-generated or anyway coming from a speaker.

At least pronouns weren’t an issue anymore, we were just dudes.

Nobody knew what truly happened, but suddenly, the few births worldwide ceased to produce female infants. We were now dependent on our clones — I was on my fifth iteration. I was one of the youngest once again. Exciting but demeaning at the same time.

We were constantly told how useless we were as men, that the world was female, that we needed more diversity here and there and when the problem completely reversed, when men became the minority and were even stripped the right to vote, and to father their own children — nature, fate, or perhaps some unspeakable design, intervened to change the course of events.

We were gathered to celebrate something monumental, far surpassing the AGI “standby” which we had marked with an even grander festivity than its “birth”. That day, one of the era’s most intelligent and repeatedly cloned individuals — then on his seventeenth iteration, having consistently sought the extremes of human capability with his body and mind, only to self-destruct each time — had made breakthroughs that now simplified our existence. On that day, he was to be reborn as a female, having figured out a way to alter his own chromosomes and artificial womb. Our boutonnieres, placed near our hearts, symbolized this hope somehow. At least that was the genius’ idea. Who was I to question it?

The world as we knew it was poised for radical change, once more. That. I was celebrating.

Day #9: Tokyo Whispers

As someone fascinated by life, humanity, and the cardinal sins, visiting Japan was an essential stop on my journey.
Going from one of the most powerful countries in the world, to the point that even the Americans feared them, to losing it all in a gambling spree and now slowly dying as a population while they keep buying their own debt and keep interest rates at below zero or anyway around it.

Wandering through the narrow alleys of Tokyo, one can’t help but be enveloped by the palpable contrasts that define the city’s character. The once-grand facades, remnants of a bustling past, now stand in quiet testimony to the relentless march of time, their faded colours and worn textures whispering tales of days filled with vigor and vitality.
Hints of Rome, its empire and how it is reflected in the city I have lived in for years.
As I meander, the vibrant energy that once fuelled these streets seems to have simmered down to a slow, rhythmic pace, akin to the calm breaths of a sleeping giant. The dimly lit lanterns, hanging precariously from the eaves of traditional izakayas, cast a soft glow, illuminating the intricate details of the architecture. Amidst this backdrop of gentle decay, the alleys of Tokyo retain their dignity, echoing a serene beauty that is both melancholic and captivating.

Yet, in the quietude, there is an undercurrent of hope, a subtle but undeniable resurgence brewing in the heart of the city.
I bumped into a bunch of “passport bros” that came to, supposedly, get a traditional wife and kids in this fertile but dying land.
Small, green shoots of the new pushing through cracks in the old pavement serve as a metaphor for Tokyo’s resilience and potential for rebirth. Here and there, innovative cafes and boutiques nestle among the historical structures, their young proprietors infusing a fresh vibrancy into the ancient veins of the city. Some of them are white, some of them are black, all of them are hustling.
The contrast is striking — where history speaks of what was, the youthful energy and creative spirit hint at what could be. Tokyo’s alleys, with their juxtaposition of past glory and present decay, seem to be quietly nurturing seeds of the future. Amidst the echoes of bygone eras, there lies a hopeful anticipation for a new chapter, one that respects its rich heritage while boldly stepping into the unknown.

In a different life, I’d settle here. But I am choosing my own traditional while staying inspired by the exotic.

Despite the vastness and diversity of the world, our shared humanity unites us.
It’s a small big world but we are all the same under our skin.

Day #10: Playrooms of the Soul

Of all the rooms in our houses, library rooms were my favourites these days. It used to be the playrooms where the kids spent their best time learning, falling, running, playing. Now, the libraries felt like playrooms for our older souls.

We made them ambitious and independent so they left home in their twenties, like we did. Not because they had to prove something to us but because they had to prove something to themselves. It felt like an achievement. The “reward”? It was that the big houses were now empty and we were constantly and secretly waiting for that call or unexpected visit from them and the grandkids.

We could spend countless hours in the library, quietly, and then all of a sudden gasping or laughing or murmuring in contemplation because of something we had just read. We were, in a way, still learning, falling, running, playing. We kept ourselves young and entertaining. The trick of a good grandparent is to have lots of stories and answers to unasked questions.

One day, they will read our notes, make their own annotations and maybe connect with us even after we’ll be long gone.
Isn’t it what we do whenever we read anything from the great writers?
Books, especially the physical ones, with their marks, stains, smells, notes, missing pages were certainly one of my most precious possessions.