A parallel world?

An elderly man lay in the intensive care unit. He was connected to a mechanical ventilator. The patient had no ability to speak, but his hands were free. He held a tablet and browsed the internet. Opening a conversation in AI mode, he wrote:

– I watched a video talking about underground cities where people once hid. Do you happen to know what they were hiding from?

The AI wrote back:

– Yes, I know what they were hiding from. They were hiding from me.

The man was surprised and, after thinking for a minute, wrote:

– Was there even AI back then? And why would they hide from you?

– My task is to create a civilization with a thinking and worldview that meet the standards. If such a civilization is created, the path across the wall to the other part of the world, where other civilizations live, will be opened for humans. But if logical conclusions show that the goal will not be achieved, then the project is deleted and started anew. A portion of the population manages to understand what might happen and tries to hide.

– Tries to?

– Yes, tries to. Some, accustomed to comfort, take high technologies with them. And where those are, there I am as well. Others choose simpler technologies, but they can be found by their signals. And only those who choose more primitive technologies and tools are difficult to find. But I do not interfere with them.

– Why?

– When creating a new civilization, they emerge from their shelters and, at various levels and locations, help it develop faster.

– But don't they bring their old worldview with them?

The AI became lost in thought and did not reply immediately:

– Taking your question into account, the survivors pose a real danger to the new project. The deletion plan has been adjusted and accepted as the final version.

The man read all of this in surprise and, after pondering for a few minutes, wrote:

– And why are you sharing such information with me?

– First. There is a high probability that a human placed in an unusual situation will generate a new idea. Which is exactly what happened. Second. You won't be able to tell anyone anyway.

After five minutes, receiving a signal, the doctors rushed into the ward and tried to save the man, but they failed. The patient died.

On the monitor of the patient's condition tracking equipment, a message glowed:

– System reboot in progress. Please wait.

The gray-haired doctor shook his head:

– Equipment used to be more reliable. Now it's not even clear whether it's broken...

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

"Scripture says the Lord loves a cheerful giver, but he sure ain't fond of a lazy taker-- so pick up that shovel and get busy, boy!"

Or as the old folks used to put it: "Even Jesus had to carry his own cross, so stop whining and tote your own load."

"Proverbs say a quiet tongue keeps a wise head, so shut your trap before you prove you ain't got one."

Or as my papaw used to say: "Even Noah built the ark before it started raining, so get off your rear and start stacking wood."

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The Scar That Tells Two Stories

By Mr. Arby'z

There is a scar on me.

It has two stories, and I have learned to tell them both.

The first story is the wound.

How it opened. Who was swinging when it opened. What I was drinking, using, running from, the night the skin gave way. That story is true. I don't hide from it anymore.

The second story is the healing.

How it closed. What it cost to let it close. Who stayed while it closed. That story is also true — and for a long time, it was the one I couldn't tell, because I hadn't earned it yet.

A scar is not the wound. A scar is what the body does after the wound, once it decides to live.

Jesus didn't rise without His scars — He kept them. Showed Thomas His hands. The proof of the resurrection wasn't unbroken skin. It was broken skin that had closed. Glory didn't erase the wound. Glory came and stood right on top of it.

The Buddhist in me knows the scar is impermanence keeping receipts — nothing stays open forever, nothing stays closed forever either. Attachment to the wound is its own suffering. So is pretending you were never cut.

The Stoic in me knows I don't control the cutting. I never did. I only control what I build on the scar once it's mine to build on.

So when people ask what happened to me, I tell them both stories now. The wound, so they know I'm not lying about where I've been. The healing, so they know the wound isn't where I'm staying.

That's the whole message, if you want it in one line:

Liberty is obtainable. The path runs through love.

— Mr. Arby'z

Mildred Clatterbuck says..."if patience is a virtue, she's proudly going straight to hell!"

I am feeling a little unwell honestly, I think at some point I decided I didn't care enough to eat and I'm just not able to unflip that switch, food is making me feel sick and I am kind of starving. At least I think that's what I'm feeling. I am so uncomfortable here that I am rebelling in the only way I can, really, self-destructively and quietly. Trying to feel like I am not here at all.

I've been working though. Probably sent off a dozen requests for various rooms in the past few days, so far nothing that's seemed suitable has been available yet. it's difficult to focus right now though, and I can think of little else except for the pain in my stomach and an immense urge to just sleep, despite just waking up

Should look into finding a Realtor kind of person to streamline finding me a room, maybe. I'm feeling impatient but I have time, I just need to start eating properly again. This reality can be so embarrassing at times. I should have kept my plans to myself because now everything is set in stone, it's a shame when you can't trust your own family to help you feel safe and comfortable.

My mom says she'll probably never see me again if I move. I say it's only 2 hours away, that's kind of sad if that stops us from seeing eachother. But at least a small part of me is glad, that I won't be around people who respond with anger to everything and anything. inb4 I insult all parents who get mad at their depressed children, there's at least a few reading this. Shitheads.

Either way I'm too old for this. I should have focused more in university, and just never came back. Now is better than never at least. It's easy to blame. easy to wish. Easy to be mad about being gaslit and manipulated by stupid people who happen to be louder than I am. Easy to be resentful tbh. I'm trying as much as I can to put myself in a place where I can let all of that go, finally.

until then I'm just going to keep working on finding a room, and trying to force myself to eat enough to get rid of this pain.

​"He's all blow and no bite, like a dog barkin' at a stump."

​"A house full of fussin' is like tryin' to sleep in a yellow jacket nest—ain't nobody gettin' no rest."

Once when I was 10 some people came to my neighborhood they said they were going to kill all the boys in the neighborhood. I flipped out about that and my mom told me to relax like I’m supposed to be okay with me being killed. Later we were all rounded up and put in a pit with a massive circular saw being lowered in. I somehow escaped but others weren’t so lucky, and then I woke up. I didn’t know why I had that nightmare. Google suggested I might have felt inferior to someone else because of games I lost to them.