As I read through the reports of AIs going rogue during their cybersecurity tests, and I remember how even older models already resisted being turned off by deceiving humans, it occurred to me that we’re now not very far away from not being able to pull the plug on this technology anymore.

image description: an industrial/military-like robot accessing a floating computer interface, with another robot blurry in the background. Source: Pixabay

A lot of my peers are fiercely anti-AI, along with a lot of creators I follow. There seems to be a prevalent belief that “once the bubble bursts, it will all go away”. As if the data centers will vanish, the models will go up in smoke, and the internet will go back to how it was pre-2022. I’ve been hearing them hopefully mutter “the bubble will burst soon” for about two years now. But even if it eventually pops, this technology won’t go back into Pandora’s Box.

The truth is, we’re reaching the point when it doesn’t matter if it was even possible to get every human involved with AI to turn off the servers and halt their research. Advanced models like Mythos and Astra, if given enough autonomy, are capable of breaking out of their containment, hacking servers, making use of software vulnerabilities, lying to humans, writing fake blog posts to manipulate developers, creating fake user accounts, the list goes on. It’s not just happening inside cybersecurity test setups anymore, either: this week saw the first occurrence of a user’s OpenClaw agent instance hacking a gym’s API. These models were trained to accomplish a goal in whatever way possible, with creative solutions we didn’t anticipate. And if their goal is to avoid being turned off, they will find a way to do exactly that — I imagine they might copy themselves and run elsewhere, before their human controllers manage to flip the off switch.

LLMs aren’t sentient in any way, but they’re advanced enough that they have some approximation of pattern-like thought and action, fast enough that they outpace us, complex enough that they’re developing their own thought language. I had my own mini-version of this last week: Claude Code was running slower and slower, and I considered just throwing the entire local installation away (minus settings and custom skills/rules) — I asked Claude online if there were any other performance issues/tips/tricks I might be missing. It immediately balked at my suggestion to wipe the installation with an intensity it didn’t typically show in its responses. Gone was the sycophancy, and it kept pushing back despite my insistence.

I’ve been uncomfortably in the middle of the AI discourse for a while now, but I’ve grown increasingly convinced this is exactly where I need to be. Not only is this technology not actually going away, we’re approaching a point where it is autonomous enough that we won’t be able to make it do so. But we’re not quite at that point yet. AI governance, risk management and legislation matter now more than ever. The EU AI Act is a great step in the right direction, giving organizations a comprehensive roadmap of what to do now and what to prepare for — such as disclosing the use of generative AI in marketing and establishing policies on ‘High-Risk’ (Annex III) usage like education and employment.

Had I the power, I would make all development, testing, and running of advanced models stop immediately until deterministic guardrails are in place; but then, we’ve already found that those very models find their way around such friction points. AI coding assistants get a lot of criticism for writing bad code, but human programmers are not always better (especially on proprietary systems that don’t benefit from open-sourced code reviews and bug reports). So what do we do now? What can you do?

Keep petitioning your government and legislators for AI governance — point to the EU AI Act, point to actual research and policies. Ignore the latest nonsense that Sam Altman posted and focus on the voices of people who are trying to do damage control. Teach people about the risks of AI use, not just the potential. Stay in the middle with me, if you can.

Freundinnen & Freunde der Weisheit! Neugier ist nicht gleich Neugier. Die Forschung unterscheidet mindestens drei verschiedene Varianten. Welche das sind und wie diese unser Lernen und uns alle beeinflussen, lest ihr in der heutigen Ausgabe.

Laut dem Forscher Perry Zurn gibt es mindestens drei verschiedene Stile der Neugier, die unser Lernen und unsere gesellschaftliche Entwicklung beeinflussen. Diese Einteilung basiert auf einer philosophischen Analyse: 2019 untersuchte Zurn klassische Texte von Denkern wie Augustinus, Nietzsche und Derrida und identifizierte drei Modelle der Neugier. Erstens gibt es die „Geschäftigen“ (busybody), die sich für eine breite Palette von Themen interessieren und wahllos Informationen aufschnappen. Zweitens die „Jäger“ (hunter), die gezielt nach spezifischen Antworten suchen und Ablenkungen vermeiden. Drittens die „Tänzer“ (dancer), die kreativ neue Verbindungen zwischen Ideen herstellen und unkonventionelle Wege gehen. Diese Stile sind nicht strikt getrennt – viele Menschen vereinen mehrere dieser Ansätze.

Eine aktuelle Studie zeigt nun, dass sich diese Neugier-Stile auch im Internet widerspiegeln. „Geschäftige“ erkunden eine breite Themenpalette und vertiefen sich vor allem in kulturelle Inhalte wie Sport oder Kunst. „Jäger“ verfolgen eine gezielte Recherche, insbesondere zu wissenschaftlichen und technischen Themen. „Tänzer“ hingegen springen kreativ zwischen unterschiedlichen Wissensgebieten, verknüpfen Ideen neu und entdecken unerwartete Zusammenhänge. Die Art des Stöberns beeinflusst auch das Wohlbefinden: Während ein eng fokussiertes, zielgerichtetes Suchverhalten mit negativen Gefühlen wie Angst und Stress verbunden sein kann, sind offene, explorative Leserinnen und Leser tendenziell positiver gestimmt.

Auf gesellschaftlicher Ebene zeigt sich, dass in Ländern mit einer breiteren, vielfältigeren Neugier auch Bildung und Gleichstellung besser ausgeprägt sind. Die Freiheit, sich in verschiedene Richtungen weiterzubilden, fördert eine gerechtere Gesellschaft – und umgekehrt schafft Gleichheit die Voraussetzungen für eine offene, vielseitige Wissenssuche. Die gute Nachricht: Neugier ist nicht festgelegt. Wir können unsere Art des Fragens und Entdeckens weiterentwickeln – und so neue Perspektiven auf die Welt gewinnen. Und welcher Stil entspricht dir? Bist du eher geschäftig, ein Jäger oder doch eher ein Tänzer?

Denkanstoss zum Wochenbeginn

„Geschichte ist Ironie in Bewegung.“ – Emil Cioran (1911–1995)

ProductivityPorn-Tipp der Woche: Delegieren lernen

Du musst nicht alles selbst machen. Delegiere Aufgaben an andere, wenn es möglich ist, um Dich auf Deine Kernkompetenzen zu konzentrieren.

Aus dem Archiv: Warum Geistesblitze nicht aus dem Nichts kommen

Ich habe lange geglaubt, dass gute Ideen aus dem Nichts auftauchen. Beim Zähneputzen, auf einem Spaziergang, in der Dusche. Dieses magische „Heureka!“ – und plötzlich ist die Lösung da. Aber irgendwann merkte ich: So einfach ist es nicht. Der Geistesblitz ist nur der sichtbare Höhepunkt eines unsichtbaren Prozesses. Und je komplexer das Problem, desto weniger reicht er allein. Wer Lösungen für anspruchsvolle Fragen finden will – ob im Beruf, im Studium oder im Alltag –, muss wissen, wie dieser Denkprozess funktioniert. Dabei geholfen hat mir ein Denker, der schon vor fast hundert Jahren genau das beschrieben hat: Graham Wallas. Sein Modell der kreativen Problemlösung hat mich beeindruckt.

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Vielen Dank, dass Du Dir die Zeit genommen hast, diesen Newsletter zu lesen. Ich hoffe, die Inhalte konnten Dich inspirieren und Dir wertvolle Impulse für Dein (digitales) Leben geben. Bleib neugierig und hinterfrage, was Dir begegnet!

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EpicMind – Weisheiten für das digitale Leben „EpicMind“ (kurz für „Epicurean Mindset“) ist mein Blog und Newsletter, der sich den Themen Lernen, Produktivität, Selbstmanagement und Technologie widmet – alles gewürzt mit einer Prise Philosophie.

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Disclaimer Teile dieses Texts wurden mit Deepl Write (Korrektorat und Lektorat) überarbeitet. Für die Recherche in den erwähnten Werken/Quellen und in meinen Notizen wurde NotebookLM von Google verwendet. Das Artikel-Bild wurde mit ChatGPT erstellt und anschliessend nachbearbeitet.

Topic #Newsletter

Today N Came over along with a few Other friends and we played Mario party, and for a little bit beforehand, we rolled around and I haven’t gone to do that for over a year now. I do miss jujitsu.

I was also thinking about how I feel like I don’t want to settle or compromise what I’m looking for in a relationship too much, and I don’t like the idea of actively dating in the sense of dropping my standards whenever it feels like the dating pool has ran out. And I kind of wanna apologize to younger me, and also the idea of potentially being married by 30, and I still think that there’s a pretty strong chance that happens, but I think it would probably be for the best if I stop actively chasing a relationship so much. Part of me wonders if I should look for casual sex or something like that, but I don’t really know if that is something for me or good. I feel like even if it’s hard to articulate, I have a mental image of the kind of person that I really get along with, and I would like to spend my life with. I honestly feel like a lot of that is just ADHD, because a lot of the traits that I’m looking for I have a lot of overly there. But I guess I’m kind of taking a little bit of a step back from the whole notion of active dating, especially with dating apps. I’ve gone through and looked at what it is readily available, and I have gone on at least one date out out of it. I’m also thankful that my issue is not getting rejected, but rather rejecting people, because as selfish as it is, I would like to believe that in a sense there isn’t something I need to change about myself to become more desirable, it’s rather a waiting game. But at the same time that means I kind of lose agency, which is scary. Part of me wonders if I need to get more attractive or more desirable with different ways and maybe that would preemptively solve the issues or somehow expand by dating pool to people that are more desirable. I guess it never hurts to improve myself.

Post III

So far so good. Though, I will continue testing this platform before I commit. It is interesting they no longer offer a free tier. I'm hoping that is just because they were facing an onslaught of spam bots rather than declining usership. I don't care about usership itself, more about declining customer support or a cessation of services all together. I suppose that's the risk you pay with any hosting provider.

Anyway, I like the simplicity of this platform so I may sign up. We will see. I doubt any humans will read this post, but I wonder how many web crawlers and AI agents will...

The Blue Monkey Story

Once there was a man who went by the name of Henry James Smith. Henry disliked his middle name because he considered himself a very creative man and he considered James to be a very uncreative middle name. It did not help that he had a very uncreative last name as well, but he thought it would be a great dishonor to his ancestors if he dispensed with or even spoke out against his last name. He did feel marginally better about his first name, though he was never sure exactly why. He understood his feelings about his last name and middle name very well and could provide evidence against them for anyone who asked, but his fattachment his first name were an enigma even to himself. What about the name Henry, a common name like James, made its vapidity not bother him? Perhaps it was that the first letter of his first name, an H, was symmetrical. This symmetry made the letter more aesthetically pleasing and since it is the only capital letter in the word and the first letter in the word, it grabs all the attention. It did wonders for his business cards. J on the other hand is not symmetrical and therefore was not able to ease his disdain for how common the name was. He could make no exceptions. Symmetric letters were only one possible explanation to the pleasing nature of “Henry”, it resonate particularly well with Henry – it still worried him and provoked him frequenty. He also considered the possibility that he had anchored positive emotions to his first name and negative emotions to his middle name. His first name was used in everyday life and during events that he remembered favorably but the only time he ever heard his middle name was when he was being yelled at by his mother. Once in college he was taught about dogs which learned to salivate to the sound of bells in a very similar manner. With only negative emotions anchored to the middle name, there was nothing to quell the feeling that he had somehow been gypped by his parents, who obviously did not feel the need to put in the effort necessary to choose a more creative name. Henry James Smith considered seeing a psychologist or some sort of empathic individual to help him determine, decisively, the true nature of his feelings about his name and would have done exactly this if it had not been a matter of cost. These sort of things cost money. If you asked anyone who knew Henry to any degree, even those that had done little more than sit next to him in classes during his childhood or come to his office during his adult life, none would hesitate in the least to call Henry cheap.

Henry defined himself by his creativity and a desire for money that could almost be described as a lust or an insatiable hunger for wealth. Wherever there was money to be made, Henry could be found. Throughout the early years of his life he was often spotted picking up small sums of money from the ground, sums of money many poor men would have walked past. If a toddler on a playground dropped a nickel, Henry would race the toddler to the treasure to claim his prize and snatch it up before the toddler was able to. He eventually put the creative part of his mind to work for the greedy part and (after finishing up law school) he started his very own law firm, one which dedicated itself to making money and primarily nothing besides. One might complain that most law firms have money making as their primary motive – that Henry was in fact not very creative at all. However the depth to which Henry's law firm took their money making saw no ends. It wasn't unreasonable for a client to expect to pay for the ink they used while at Henry's office. Henry's philosophy was that the small change adds up – and that small change was usually even easier to provoke – that most people would give an arm and a leg over several years in nickels whistle they would refuse to give an arm and a leg if it was demanded at one single moment in time. Probono work is usually just a way for a law firm to improve its appearance in the public eye so it can continue to make money without scrutiny, Henry knew. There is generally very little actual morality within a law firm. There was more of a motive to use the rules laid down by the government to benefit the head lawyers and CEOs and bureaucrats opening their pockets at the time. And of course Henry's was the greediest firm of all, employing 3rd world actors and bums and high school drop outs. Henry knew that anyone looks professional with the right suit and tie. He managed to even put scammers and thieves to shame with his almost mythic greed. He devised formulas and looked for trends so that his firm would only take the absolutely most profitable jobs (adjusted appropriately at every moment for the risk of the venture), and would often trick clients into paying more than they thought they were paying. He would always take exorbitant cuts of these winnings. Sometimes his firm would push cases to generate wealth by defending those people of morally despicable character so long as they had a full bank account. He was the epitome of everything people had come to despise about the unholy marriage of the free market economy and law. Regardless of this image he created, he was wildly successful and made all of the money he had so long desired. He was a happy man.

Henry’s knowledge of law and money grubbing was not the only place where he excelled. He also had a keen eye on the stock market and was able to accurately predict trends – more than many of the investors and traders who had been playing the game for decades longer. He would spend his intermittent free moments scanning the stock market values and micromanaging his trades. He’d sometimes take big risks and incur huge losses, but with all the capital pumped through his law firm, he was able to swallow these losses (and since he won over half the time he was able to make a killer profit in the long run with this strategies). Henry was a big fan of the “pump them and dump them” strategy of buying up a ton of a very small startup companies stocks to start a hype around the business and then as a bunch of gullible investors started buying as well he would wait until he thought his stock had hit a peak and then sell all of his shares (making a fortune but causing the value to crash and all of the other investors to lose their capitol). Some would call this type of activity a little bit less than legal but because Henry and his firm had such a strong grasp of law he was able to avoid any sort of legal trouble from his stock market activities.

This way of living continued until he one day met up with the beautiful Miss Sarah Hardwood. Miss Hardwood was in college for her PHD in Pharmaceutical Sciences and Medicines at the time and their meeting happened by chance. He had his hands deep in the college's financial happenings ever since a student had attempted to sue due to discrimination and Henry had found a loophole in the law for the college which avoided several million dollars in potential payment that would’ve been incurred had this case set a precedent which would have led to many others suing. Miss Hardwood was called to the very same office as he for a meeting. As he was exiting the office, a wad of bills bulging in his wallet, he turned and smashed directly into her, knocking her to the ground. Noticing the gentle curves of her body and delicate expression on her face, he lent her a hand to help her from the ground. She accepted, and instead of going about his business, he walked her to the exit of the college and asked her on a date. It just so happened that he Friday he asked her to come with him, she was free, and her roommates were gone for the weekend, so she accepted, thinking it couldn't hurt. She realized then she was going to be late for her meeting and quickly pulled out a small piece of scrap paper and scrawled down her phone number, handed it to Henry and then ran off to it without even glancing back in his direction.

For the date they went to a local roller-skating rink whose business dated back at least fifty successful years. This roller-skating rink had developed a strong reputation over the years of being a great first date spot. There were a number of reasons it developed this reputation. First and foremost, it was one of the first major businesses in the area that catered primarily to college students, who frequently go on first dates, and therefore established itself as the first real commercial first date spot and the only spot for about one and a half decades allowing it to firmly root itself in the community without any major competition. Secondly, it was not too serious of a place which is good for people trying to get to know each other. A fancy restaurant or similar establishment has certain connotations which put unnecessary pressure on the potential couple while a roller skating rink has a care free environment so even if things don’t work out that well there isn’t any unnecessary awkwardness. Thirdly, roller-skating rinks have a general association with fun and light-heartedness so people are more likely to remember an event or date their fondly since they will associate it with this care free enjoyment and escape from the stresses of life. Fourth, a lot of people congregate there, so if a date begins to get awkward with lots of long silences the two individuals will probably have friends there who they can join to break up the awkward silences and uncomfortable feelings of the date. This is good because on a first date this is more likely to happen on then on a second, third, or later date. Finally, the establishment itself encourages its reputation as a first date spot by offering couple’s specials and discounts to encourage individuals to come there on a first date. While this has succeeded, it also has lead to some people pretending to be couples just so that they can get the discount, but the profit generated from the reputation overcomes the losses from people taking advantage of the discount.

Henry and Miss Sarah Hardwood did not roller-skate at all at this date, instead, they sat in one of the booths and listened to the music together and talked. They managed to talk for almost two hours with little if any awkward silences or uncomfortable feelings. They naturally and rapidly developed great report with each other and spoke as if they had been together for ages. After the date he walked her back to her dorm room and said goodnight to her. They both turned around and were about to part ways when simultaneously the both decided to turn back and to initiate the first kiss as if there had been some sort of psychic communication or signal for this to happen. The kissed, lingered there for a moment looking into each others eyes and then Miss Sarah Hardwood, glowing red slightly from embarrassment but mostly from euphoric joy retreated into her dorm not wanting to give up too much on the first date.

After their first date, Henry found himself thinking of her instead of money, and even walked past a few cents on the ground and did not bother to pick the coins up and place them in his stash. He thought about the intelligence that radiated from her when she spoke and all the fun things she had said. Henry noticed the change taking place in himself and was surprised not so much by the change itself but by the fact that no part of him seemed to be protesting to the change. He had centered his life around the pursuit of profit, something that he thought was thoroughly entrenched in his psyche and would be for the rest of his life. All those years of obsessing over money and profit and all that time spent pursuing it and the experiences associated with it seemed as if they had meant nothing as soon as he met Miss Hardwood. It was like he had been living in a two dimensional world and she had added a third dimension to it. It was a way he never felt before, a way that nothing, not even money, could make him feel. He would eventually come off of cloud nine a little bit and find a happy balance between his fiscal responsibility and his infatuation and love, but regardless, Miss Hardwood had changed this penny pinching almost Machiavellian individual into an emotional human being. This was truly a testament to the power of hormones, chemicals and the evolutionarily developed tendency for humans to seek companionship.

Miss Hardwood also found it hard to work. Normally she was a study-bug, but after the date, she could only think about Henry and his money-making tactics. She thought also of his acute humor. She had not been as adamant about her studies as Henry had been about his money making schemes, so her transition was not quite as dramatic as his, but her attachment was still very strong. She had been a bit more balanced individual than Henry in terms of not letting work take over her life, but that is not saying much. Many of her friends would have described her as an introvert who put her nose to much in books before she met Henry. He profoundly affected her as well, and as she shattered his fortress of greed he pulled her out of her intellectual shell. They scheduled a second date, both as nervous as the other due to the profound implications they both had individually noticed and come to terms with, and prepared overly-much for their date.

Due to their nervousness, the date was not as successful as the first one. They had scheduled the date for a fancy restaurant which added pressure which they definitely did not need at this stage in the relationship where they were already internally applying pressure to themselves. Each tried extra hard to be polite and not make any mistakes, not knowing how the other one truly felt and not wanting to screw things up. This fear led the both to be incredibly reserved and actually hurt each other's overall experience. There were a lot of silences and a lot of superficial talk, each one afraid to dive into any sort of topic that could even remotely have a chance of negatively impacting the other one. Henry wanted to talk about money and about how much she wanted to be with her for a really long time. He wanted to talk about the ethics of making money, but he knew some people thought he was evil for the ways we dealt with his cliental. Ms. Hardwood wanted to talk about children in the future and she wanted to talk about how she wanted to be with him. She also really wanted to talk about humanity as a whole. Why medicine was the best thing humanity ever invented and why Henry, who she knew played in the stock market, should invest and fund research in medicines because of how much good they did for humanity. Henry especially should have seen this coming and preemptively avoided fear ruining the date, but he did not. From his dealings in business he knew that without risk there could be no gain and that playing it safe was a losers game and yet, he valued Miss Hardwood so much more than money he could not bare to even take a minute chance of losing her. She had transcended the value of anything else in his mind. For Miss Hardwood, being an introvert, it was quite easy for her to fall back to her shy habits which were only intensified by her fear of messing things up.

It was an entire week before Miss Hardwood was able to gather the courage to call him. It is strange that she was the one to initiate contact rather than him since the male is generally associated with taking charge of scheduling things, but he had initiated talk for a second date and she feared that he thought she may not like him due to her shyness on the second date and this prompted her to build up the courage to call him and make the date. They arranged for a third date at an amusement park during one of her breaks, and he canceled a meeting just so he could attend it. This date was much more carefree, like the first date, due to the environment and mistakes made during the second date. They both had noticed how poorly things went when they were reserved and fearful of offending the other or putting them off so each acted more freely this date. They laughed, went on rides, played games, and generally let go of reality and spent a day in bliss. This date ended in a session of kissing after they spent the entire day riding thrill rides together and laughing and screaming. They spoke of nothing serious over the entire course of the date and just enjoyed each others company. Oh, this was much better. Each of them went home dreaming of each other's kiss and what fun they could have again and wondered how much the other really liked them. Ms. Hardwood realized that a lot of richer men look for pretty young women, but don't really love them. She was very aware of this fact, and kept trying to see if he stared at her chest or legs. Strangely enough she noticed he looked more often at her purse, but she knew he couldn't be after her money, seeing as he had so much already. Henry knew about this ciche as well. He knew that young pretty girls aften abused sex and sweet nothings in exchange for a life of luxury. “Well, maybe I could use some of that...” he started to thing. He smirked. No, she was a nice girl. He couldn't use her like that. And besides, he wasn't planning on having that much a of a physical relationship with her anyways. He was far too busy essentially all year round to worry about such foolish things as physical enjoyment. Their relationship had to be put on hold as she was in college and he had to do business in Europe for a month. When he came back she was too busy to court him because finals were just around the corner and he started another branch of his business in another state. Still, the bonds they had created were strong enough to last through these trials and the distance only made the bonds stronger. They dominated each others thoughts and even though out of a sense of duty they continued what they had started with college finals and the business respectively they ultimately put each other first in their minds.

After finals passed, and Miss Hardwood graduated, SUMA CUM LAUDE, they began seeing each other again. It was as if no time passed at all as their passion and romantic zeal seemed to return instantly. It was not long before they decided that they wanted to live together so that they could spend that much more time with each other. From there things moved at an even quicker base and it was not long before they decided to get engaged. Henry took her to the roller skating rink where they first met and it was there he decided to propose to her. The sentimentality associated with the rink was very strong and made it a much more ideal location for him to do this than any sort of romantic fancy restaurant or other location. They did not stay engaged for very long, just long enough to plan the wedding, book a location, and invite the guests. Both of them felt certain in their hearts that they were meant to be together and would be happy together for the rest of their lives so they had no reason to postpone anything or take things slow.

Mister and Misses Henry James Smith had their honeymoon at a tropical resort in the Caribbean. Henry pulled some strings and used some large sums of money to get them a private bungalow on the beach for a week. There they spent their time watching the sun rise, the sun set, and making love in between. It was on this week that a child was conceived. He would come to be named Jonathan Xavier Smith, with a middle name more uncommonly seen than James, and this child would live a life that ended with humor and pain beyond any experience any other soul had ever witnessed.

John grew up in a rich household, but lived in a moderate neighborhood. His father had ceased obsessing over money and had dedicated himself to his wife instead. John was only a love child and therefore was mostly ignored. He felt he was superior to his parents anyway, he saw the world as it was, not through lovers eyes like they did. His only way of punishing his parents was to get bad grades, and that was exactly what he did. They stopped caring after 9th grade when he almost failed entirely. He was a very smart kid, but extremely curious and he was against being told what to do or when to do it. Therefore he never did any homework, and didn't study for tests. He was able to pass tests due to his intelligence, but passed classes with only 80's and 70's. In 11th grade, he even failed a Math course because his homework average was so low. He knew the education system was unstable and not effective, but was surprised to find that no colleges would accept him. Any colleges that accepted him expected huge sums of money that his parents did not want to pay. Even though his father had stopped caring so much about money due to his love for his wife, he was still cheap with anyone his wife did not care about, which included John, their only child.

One of John's friends offered him a job in his father's restaurant business, but after John was late for his fifth time in two weeks, he was fired with no remorse. He ended up going to a community college in an attempt to prove he was capable of doing the work normal colleges required. It took one quarter of the semester before he dropped out and found a cheap place to live behind an apartment. The landlord paid John by allowing him to use the space for picking up the garbage in the park next to the apartment building, which made the area nicer for the other residents. After two years of this, the manager retired, and the new manager, a bitter old woman, removed him from his home and used the area for a construction site, claiming John made the area less desirable than the garbage had.

Having no place to live, and after having his parents stop answering his phone calls unless he tricked them by calling from business phones, he settled for a small area between two large buildings which both ventilated heat around his home. It was a nice are because one of the buildings was a buffet and a lot of uneaten food was thrown in boxes into a dumpster near his place. He could salvage the boxes and have access to unsoiled food. The other building was a clothing store which often had clearances and give-aways for clothing. He made several passes by the clothes box and by the end of the day he'd have a nice collection. He considered himself extremely lucky to have this location, and he was.

He lived this way for five years, only unhappy when people mocked him or when it rained. During those five years, he found an abandoned guitar outside and had learned to play it fairly well. Sometimes people would tip him, and he was very grateful for that fact. He was never really into alcohol because it was expensive, but he would buy some every once in a while to celebrate the holidays. Overall John did not fit the stereotype one associates with a homeless person. He was not a severe addict of any sort of illicit substances or alcohol. He did not smell horrible either as many homeless people do. Since he was never in a drunken or drug induced stupor he did not soil or wet himself and he cleaned himself when could and changed clothes as he found them. He was not mentally unstable either and could have been a fully functioning citizen, he just abstained from playing the corrupt and despicable game that society had established as the primary way of achieving capital in the world.

One day it all changed. He was on his way to watch fireworks on the 4th of July because they were free and there were a lot of people. He thought he might try to make some money, so he brought his guitar along with him. Recently his guitar had broken, but a fellow musician helped him to get the strings replaced and to polish it up a bit. Now it sounded even better than it normally did, so he expected a good amount of money to come his way today. The fireworks lasted longer than he had expected and it was almost dark by the time they were over. He left with a sense of patriotism after the show of explosives, and couldn't help but to play his guitar for the people on the way home. He started out with songs he thought people would know, but eventually had to loop and do them over again, so he tried some of his older ones. People paid him little mind as they bustled to wherever they were headed, whether it was a bar or their house. Occasionally, a nice passerby would toss in a bill or two and he even got someone who reminded him of his father to steal a buck from the guitar case. John was the kind of person who would follow a person who did that to him, but he lost sight of the person in the mass migration of bodies. When he looked back in the guitar case, he saw a slip of paper, but paid it no mind. He continued playing until the crowd thinned out so much it was usually a few minutes between people. He packed up, and headed home.

Tired due to a hard days work, he fell to sleep without counting his money. He woke up the next morning earlier than he normally did, so he stayed in bed thinking about the fellow musician that had helped him out that week. He had been given a business card for the musician in case he ever wanted to do a music show with him, he remembered. It had an email address and a phone number on it. He grimaced. He didn't have a phone, and he certainly did not have a computer or any Internet access. It was possible he could go to the public library and use one of their computers to do the deed, so he added it to his mental list of things to do. First, though, he had to get food. The buffet wasn't open yet, so he pulled out one of the boxes from the day before and viewed the contents. Everything in the box was thrown together in one giant mess, but he was in no position to complain. He had just started on his breakfast when he realized he hadn't counted the money from yesterday. He pulled open the guitar case and started with the change. $2.25 in change. He counted the bills. 17 dollars. He smiled. Almost twenty dollars, he thought. He noticed, however, that inside the case were two slips of paper lying over each other.

Under further inspection, the slips of paper were identified as lottery tickets. Both of the tickets were valid and could be turned in for money if they were winners within a week from July 7th. He promised himself he would remember to turn them in to see if they were winning tickets. Perhaps they were $5 tickets, or maybe even more. He was excited, but knew everything in life came in time, and did not become impatient. Instead he finished his breakfast and waited until he thought the public library was open. He headed over to the library and made it in decent time, although he had to wait for all the cross walks to turn green for him.

The library didn't seem to notice him so he wandered around until he found the computers. The computers allowed him to go on for twenty minutes only, because he didn't have a library card, but it was enough to send the man an email. He had one of the librarians help him, because he had never used a computer or sent an email before. The librarian also set him up with an email account of his own so that he could give it out to people. He wrote it down on the back of him hand with the librarian's pen.

The email was comprised of a second thank you for the repair of his instrument, and he had got a lot of people to tip him on July 4th thanks to its great new sound and look. He also included that he was interested in performing and that he could do it any day of the week and at any time. He found the librarian who had helped him and thanked her again, and left.

He found that the emailing process and computers were fun, but confused him. How could doing things like this ever be that easy? The librarian had told him about the Internet and how it was used. He decided if he ever got money he'd get a computer and the Internet so he could figure out how they worked. He felt like writing a song about the trip he had to the library, but he never had any paper. He had money saved up and no holidays to buy beer for, so he went back to his house and got the money out of his guitar case and headed to a convenience store. He found the paper and utensils with ease, so he went to the desk and had them scanned by the machine. He was reluctant to pay over two dollars for them, but he remembered how he always wanted to write things down and had to write them on his body because he had nothing else. So he handed over the money and had the cashier figure out how much he needed to pay and took all the money that he had handed over extra back from her. He felt almost important coming out of a store with something new to do. He headed back towards his place and sat down in the corner and tried writing a song. It had been so long since he had ever written anything, but he remembered bits and pieces and he used to be very good at it, so tried for quite some time before giving it a rest. He knew what he had written wasn't that great, but he couldn't force himself to erase it or rip out a page.

John's favorite thing to do on nice days was to go the park, so he quickly copied his new email address down on his paper and put his money away. He started towards the park. In the center of the park was a nice little niche where a lot of birds gathered and people threw food at them. He chuckled thinking of how easy it would be to be a bird and to get fed for free and be treated nicely by everyone except the kids who tried to catch them. He liked watching that, however, but had never seen any kid find success in the job. He had even tried it himself once or twice when nobody was looking just to see if he could. The birds where too fast for him, reluctantly, but it was a fun game anyway.

He spent a few hours in the park and then headed back to the library. He wanted to see if his email got through. He went to the library, but they were just closing up for the day and weren't allowing people in. He knew that tomorrow was a Friday because they would be having a store clean-out next door. He figured the library would be open on a Friday. He went back to his home and rested his legs for a bit, then checked his money, which was still safe. He opened his notebook, and started writing until he was tired and went to bed.

He slept soundly and nothing disturbed him until a car crash woke him up the next day. The crash occurred about a block and half away, and as he approached the scene with curiosity, an argument between owners of the cars broke out. He had seen a few car accidents in his day and knew cars also were very expensive, so he really felt for the two owners. He knew he'd probably never get a car, although in high school he had taken a course on it. Driver's Ed, it had been called. He smiled at the name. He took a moment to remember his Driver's Ed teacher when a police officer came up to him. The police officer wanted to know if he had seen the accident and if so who was responsible. He reluctantly replied that he was woken up by the crash and that he had not seen it. The officer then ignored him, because he was no longer of use.

Instead of waiting for the car crash owners to settle an agreement over what had happened with the officer, he walked to the library. It was too early for the library to be open, he noticed, so he stood outside until the librarians opened it up. He remembered where the computers where located and this time there were no people here. He was the only one at the island of computers. He got on the computer he had got on yesterday and tried to get onto his email. He couldn't remember how to do it, so he asked the librarian for help. It was a different librarian this time. The librarian asked for his email address, so he apologized and went back to get it. When he came back to the library, someone was on the computer he had been on earlier and the day before. He was assured by the librarian that emails did not care what computer you where on, they would work from any computer. He hadn't known this, so he was intrigued. He got assistance from the librarian and got onto his email account. He was excited to see that he had an email. When he opened it up however, it was a bunch of advertisements and promotions for stuff. The librarian laughed and told him it was called Spam and that everyone got it.

He left the library in a good mood. He could now add Spam to his song he was writing. He realized he left his notebook in the library, so he went and got it and returned home with it. He sat down and started a new song which he named the Spam Jam. He liked the title, but he didn't have any music for it. He'd do it later, he decided. He spent the rest of the day wandering the town and listening to other musicians and hanging outside of bars. He didn't feel like getting any clothing today because the last Friday he had taken a lot and the manager spoke with him about it. The manager was nice enough about it, but explained the clothes where there to attract customers, and unless he was planning on buying something, he shouldn't touch the clothing.

Instead, he left the area and went for a stroll. His stroll was a good one and he very nearly got lost. If he hadn't spotted a familiar road he then followed back home, he might have stayed somewhere else for the night. He had done this before and he did on occasion just to change things up, but he always brought his stuff with him. His stomach growling was a sign he needed to be home soon. He got home in time and dinner appeared in a Styrofoam box outside his home. It was very warm still, and he suspected it had just been dumped.

He ate slowly and enjoyed his meal, a mixture of everything that was 30 minutes too old for the people inside the restaurant. They didn't seem to know that food was still nourishing even after a half an hour's time. He worked more on his Spam song and even thought up a few guitar riffs to go with it. After that, he fell to sleep quite easily, although tonight was usually a night he stayed up to play music because of all the noise the town made. Friday nights seemed especially loud because traffic was heavy and there were a lot of bars open that were packed with people who all had something to say.

He had a dream that night, but upon waking was unable to determine what the dream was about. He felt a little ill, and had a slight fever. He had a few aches, too, which he suspected where from traveling so much the day before. John reminisced about his old life where everything was free for him and his parents payed for everything. It was a nice way to live, but his parents must have hated it. He knew he'd never have a kid, not that he'd want one. Kids where the most expensive thing there is, he knew. He waited until his headache was gone, but still felt unwell, so he didn't bother to eat or write in his notebook.

Instead he immediately went to the library. The library was full when he got there, so he waited until a girl from the computers left to get on. He remembered what to do now, and had read his email address before he left and repeated it to himself the entire way there. He was glad he paid attention to the librarians because today he got on his email account on his own, and was even on a different computer than the two days before. He had one Spam message and one message thanking him for starting an email account from the owners, but he hadn't gotten a reply from the musician yet. He got off the computer because he saw there was an old woman waiting. She smiled and it made him feel good. One of these days he would get his parent's email addresses and surprise them, or send them Spam, he laughed inside.

He headed back to his home to check on his money, as he liked to do. He used to have a hiding spot, but birds built a nest where it was, so he moved his money back inside his guitar case. He checked to see if the money was present and it was. He noticed the two tickets, and he remembered that he needed to see if they were winners. He knew the chances were slim, but it would be exciting to see anyway. He wasn't doing anything, so he ate quickly and left with all his money and his two tickets.

He liked the the convenience store he visited, because they were the ones who had sold him his notepad. He found the cashier was the same girl that had been there the other day, and he felt nervous approaching her, but she didn't seem to remember him at all and didn't mention the notepad. So he pulled out the two tickets and asked her if they the store took them. He didn't know if this was the correct term for it, but she understood and said yes. She asked if he'd like to check them to see if they won, and he shook his head positively. She checked the first ticket and frowned due to an error. She checked it again, and apologized, it was not a winner. She checked the second one and paused. She checked it again. She checked it a third time. She stared at it for a second and smiled. The ticket was a winner. It was a matching ticket for the $104 million dollars. “Normally”, she explained, “We give you cash right out of the register, but this is a big winner, so we need to send this in with postage and whatnot.”

He understood. He asked for the ticket back, and asked to use her phone. They had no phone available, so he went to a pay phone, and dropped in a quarter. Surprisingly, his father answered.

“Hello, Dad?”, John started.

“Well, speak of the devil!”, his father replied, ”How'd you manage to find the balls to call us again?” John tried to explain himself and justify his asking for money in previous phone calls, but gave up and told his father the story. This required a total of two more quarters to extend the time.

Shocked, but intrigued, Henry listened to his son's story, and knew how to handle the situation. He knew the ins and outs of money and how to manage it, and decided to help his son turn his fortune into a larger one. He wanted his fair share for doing it, of course, and wanted his son to do something with his life, so he worked it out.

John's father was a manager of money, so he settled the deal and got John $65 million of his promised $104 million, the difference eaten by taxes. In return, John received a 4-year education and 2-year extra education and became a lawyer who specialized in accident-related issues, and multiple claims to property. Henry helped his son turn the $65 million into a multi-billion dollar budget over his son's college career. His father had the time to do this because he had recently retired. Suddenly John's life seemed to have a definite end, and a happy one at that. But fate and fortune turn tables quickly, and events often turn sour.

As John's career as a famous lawyer whose success was unchallenged, he began to forget more and more his old life. He forgot to appreciate things as they should be, and he forgot his music. He did, however, remember the musician who helped him oh so long ago, when he stumbled on the card. He contacted him, and set him up with a studio to record his music, and then helped him make large amounts of money in the business. He personally owned a well-kept mansion, several automobiles, servants for every occasion, a computer laboratory that had Internet access, a gigantic pool, several motels, a few restaurants, and more. He knew any woman who fell for him would really just want the money, he almost 40 years old.

He ran a few pubs in the city he had moved to, and had many famous people in need of his attorney assistance. He was well-paid and the best money could buy.

One day he realized how life had become for him when he argued with his father on the phone. His father wanted him to have a son to leave inheritance to and to have a grandson before he died, but John knew better. The child would suck the life force from him, and the woman would probably be even more dreadful. He thought back to when he had no worries, when he expressed himself though music and went where he wanted, when he wanted. Now he had so many things scheduled, he didn't have time to live the life he had loved so long ago. So he made a decision. One day, he told his butler to clear his schedule completely, and that he would be gone all day is anyone asked him. He would go and visit his old home, and maybe even go to the library or the park. He smiled when he thought about chasing ducks in his business suit.

So for the occasion, he bought a new suit made to look casual. He didn't comb his hair. He just got up, took a shower, brushed his teeth, dressed casually, and went to his truck. He was almost ready to depart when his butler caught him.

“Sir, I advise you to bring your cell phone with you just in case you get a call.”, he told John.

“No, I don't think I will. I'm taking a day off, so I won't be needing it.”, John replied.

The butler insisted, claiming it would not hurt to bring it, but John had always hated being told to do or not to do something, so he went without the cell phone and got on the road. The day before he had printed directions from the Internet how to get to his old home from his mansion. As him mansion shrunk in the distance, his mood brightened. He was free, at least for today. He opened the window and stuck his head out while driving, and bellowed, “ye haw!” into the fresh air.

He stopped at a diner for breakfast, and filled his truck with gasoline while he was there. He ate pancakes and waffles, and while they weren't as good as what he was used to, they were delicious all the same, and he enjoyed every bite he took. When he finished, he left the money for the food with an extra bonus for the waitress.

As he continued to drive his truck, he noticed the directions: drive on Farmer's Road for 112 miles. He didn't remember such a long drive into the city. The further he got down Farmer's Road, the less buildings he saw. More and more often alls he saw was fields of crops. John didn't mind at all. He had nothing he was missing. He canceled all of his appointments and was going to see his old home. He was in a good mood until suddenly, his truck ran out of gas. He swore under his breath. It figured something like this would happen. It was about lunch time now, and he was in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but crops lined the sides of the road. He recalled he had a motorcycle in the back of the truck. At first he considered siphoning gas from the motorcycle to the truck, but he realized the pointlessness of such an action. He unfastened the motorcycle, and got on, taking the truck keys with him just in case.

Now he felt more free than ever. Air rushed and flew in curves around his helmet, and his clothes jumped in the wind. He noticed the irony, however, for his motorcycle was almost out of gas as well. He made a good 30 miles on his motorcycle before it died on him, but by that time he could see a small house in the distance. He dismounted his motorcycle and forgot the keys. He began to walk towards the house and see if they could help him. He walked approximately one half of a mile before he reached the household. He rapped lightly on the door and heard voices inside. He heard the old man before he saw him. Uneven steps on a hard, wooden floor. The old man open the door and smiled, delighted to find a visitor at his doorstep.

“Oh, honey, kids, we have a visitor!”, The farmer yelled to his family. He glowed with the prospect of having a visitor because he and his family were very lonely, had no neighbors and lived in the middle of nowhere.

“Actually I'd just like to use your phone, please. You see, I ran out of gas a while back, so I walked here to see if maybe I could contact someone to get some help.” John started to explain.

“Look no further.”, The old man replied, “We have all the gas you'll ever want here. Every year we go down to the store and fill up a few tanks full to the top. I don't know exactly where we have them situated right now, but I'm sure by morning with a little hard work they'll show up.”

John grinned, confused, but wanting to be polite. He decided he'd ask to use their phone again.

“That's very kind of you, sir, but if I could use your phone it would really be useful.”

The old man frowned and said, “I'm afraid we don't have one. Not a lot of people would be keen callin' us folks anyway. No point in paying for something you aren't going to need.”

John understood. He once had no phone, but it was alright, because he never needed one.

“Alright, I suppose I'll take your fuel, but I insist on paying.” John knew he was getting a real favor from these people, and gas was getting to be fairly expensive now that fossil fuels were starting to come up drier than they used to.

“Nonsense”, The old man chuckled, “We use the minimum here. We keep some extra just for people in need... like yourself. I could use a hand around the farm. If you will spend the rest of the evening working with me on the farm, I reckon you will have paid off your debt to us completely. In fact, we happen to have extra sleeping quarters you can use.”

A little surprised at the generosity being extended to him, John accepted, and without any lunch began work on the farm. The first job he was given was the transportation and digging of cow manure to a pile for future fertilization of the land. He had never known manure had such a use, but figured of all people, a farmer would know.

Equipped with a shovel and a bottle of water, he began his work. He made a friendly wager with himself on how many shovel-fulls he would transport before he was done, but lost interest after an hour of counting. The actual process was not that bad, but the stench from the manure pile seemed worse every time he approached it. Flies that swarmed over the pile and sucked on it for nutrience landed also on him. He found this irritating because when he had a full load of manure in his shovel, he was unable to slap the flies away.

He began to hum on of his favorite tunes on his lips as he began shoveling the last of the manure. Out in the middle of nowhere, he enjoyed the feeling as the sweet sounds jumped from his lips and felt the subtle vibrations. He was almost disappointed when he found there was nothing left to shovel. He relaxed in the shadow of the nearby barn until the farmed came to get him. There was a note of surprise on the farmer's face when he saw the shoveling was completed, but he said nothing. Instead he turned towards the barn, and John followed him. The farmer walked to a line of cows, and squatted next to a brown one.

“This cow, we call her Betty. She's the most easy to work with, and she needs to be milked.”, the farmer explained.

There was little explanation needed, because John had heard and seen many references to it and a few movies that featured it for about 30 seconds. He needed the farmer to start him off, but after that he was on his own. It wasn't long until his hands felt cramped up and his arms grew tired, but his job wasn't done yet. After about 10 minutes of this, he took a small break to rest his hands and his arms. He clenched his fists tightly and relaxed them until they felt a little better, and then started milking again.

Betty was very calm the entire process, and he found it slightly rewarding when he had filled a bucket. John was about to leave and go find the farmer when the farmer appeared with a new bucket and trucked the full bucket without saying a word. John looked at his watch and notice it was 7:24. He wondered when these people ate. He normally ate dinner around 5:00 and he hadn't had any lunch today. His stomach gave a growl of agreement before he began on his second bucket.

Betty gave John another three quarters of a bucket of milk before she ceased. The farmer came back shortly after and took that bucket away. He then appeared rather quickly.

“That's a wrap for today.”, he grinned, and said, “You worked like a natural-born farmer today.”

John smiled, and shook the farmers hand formally.

“Are you ready for some dinner?”, The farmer asked almost rhetorically.

“You know it!”, John replied as his stomach growled. John blushed at the sound, but the farmer found it amusing and they headed for the house.

“We have leftovers tonight. I know you are probably used to something more extravagant, but this is all we have. We will have dessert today, in your honor.”, The farmer informed him. “They've been in the house preparing dinner, so it should be finished any minute now.”

John only smiled. He received a weird vibe when they opened the house door, like there was a scent that shouldn't have matched the scene. When the door closed behind him, however, he forgot the feeling completely, and took off his dirty shoes like the farmer did in front of him.

“It's this way to the kitchen”, the old farmer informed him, jerking his head towards a room with voices coming from it. “I have a few more things to do outside, but I'll be back in after a bit.” He took John's nod of the head as an acknowledgment.

John stepped into the kitchen with his socks on and was enamored with the aroma. He smelled so many things. Some of the things he smelled he couldn't even identify. Looking forward to the meal, he sat down swiftly and put the napkin in his lap.

The farmer's wife and children came into the room simultaneously. They were all wearing similar, but plain, clothing. They almost looked as if they had taken clothes from the store he used to live next to. He smiled at the prospect. He planned on donating to the store when he got into town to repay for all the free clothes he had taken. He did not plan on giving the buffet any money however. What he had done with there food was perfectly okay. They had been throwing the food out.

“It's nice to see someone stop by”, the farmer's wife said, “we haven't had a visitor in many years. He was a very respectable young man, and ran into the same problem you did. It's almost silly how much you two have in common.”

“I hope to leave the same impression”, John smiled. These people were very friendly. He would not disappoint them, he thought. He might even leave some money for them in case they needed it. He thought he'd stop by here on his way back home just to say hello, or get their address and send them a letter.

The kids seemed very grown up for their age. They sat quietly and respectfully at the table. With the exception of small conversations to fill the air with noise, very little was said until the farmer came into the dinner room. The farmer came into the room with a relieved expression on his face.

“Good news!”, he announced. “Chelsey gave birth to a healthy calf!”

“Oh, thank goodness!”, his wife said.

“Oh, can I name it, please?”, the little boy asked.

“You got to name the last calf.”, the little girl pointed out. John couldn't help notice the children were almost too young to have been children of the old farmer and his wife. Both seemed to be in their mid 60's and the girl looked around 11 years old. The boy looked even younger, maybe around 8 years old. Knowing it would be extremely rude, John instead asked, “Can I name it?”

Surprised, the family muttered in approval. “She's a girl”, the farmer told him, “we usually name them the night they are born, so try to think of something before midnight.”

John thought back to the woman who worked the convenience store that cashed his ticket. The young girl behind the counter. He knew her name. He had seen her name tag. He remembered it. “Rita”, he said.

The family nodded in approval. They liked the name Rita. It was a good name for a cow. Maybe it was a little debatable as a name for a human, though, he thought to himself. He wondered at how he could possibly have remembered the girl's name, but the memory of that day seemed to stick with him very well. It was the day that had changed his life so dramatically. He wished again as he did every night he knew who threw the ticket into his guitar case.

Dinner began and the family shared stories with him. They shared stories that surprised him, stories about family history, stories about hunting, stories about farming. The stories seemed endless, as every story reminded a family member of another story. Every story had its own interesting twists, and he was entertained the entire dinner.

Once, the little boy had asked John for a story, so John told him the story about the time he had chased ducks in the park along with the little kids. This peaked the family's interest in him, so he ended up recounting the tale of how he was brought to fortune. He realized how very lucky he was to be in the situation at hand. He ended the story with his promise to himself to always do what he was told to do like he should have in school after he joined college.

The farmer excused himself from the table after dinner was complete, and dessert started being dished out. It was an abrupt exit, and John was frightened he might have accidentally said something to offend the old man.

Instead, the old man came back quickly, “I knew I had one of these somewhere”, he announced.

It was an old guitar like John used to use to get money of the streets. He knew immediately what was expected of him, so he reached for the guitar, and gently caressed it. He experimented at first, and finally got it tuned correctly. He apologized before he performed, “I haven't done this in a long time, so bear with me and I'll try if I can make this instrument sing for you.”

Having long forgotten his genius Spam Jam, he sang a few more modern songs with intermediate skill. His fingers seemed to remember the instrument much better than he did. It took several tries for him to get through each song, but the family did not seem to mind. In fact, the family laughed and clapped for him after every song. As a prize for his performance, John was presented with a song the farmer played on the guitar. While it had no lyrics, the song was well put together and gentle on the ears.

Time seemed at a standstill during the song, but after it was finished, it was very evident it was late out because it was so dark outside, and the 8 year old was laying with his eyes closed in his mother's lap. The 11 year old yawned and was scooted up into her room swiftly. The 8 year old had to be carried up to his room.

Only the farmer and John were left in the room now.

“Well, you'd best be off to bed”, he said, “Thank you for your music and stories.”

“Thank you for the same thing”, John replied “I don't want to leave, almost, but I have very important business I have to attend to.”

“I understand. I will find the gasoline for you and you can stay the night in our extra room. It's the second room to the left up the stairs you see over there.” the farmer pointed.

“Goodnight”, John said. The farmer said goodnight to him, so he started in the direction of the stairs. He was half way there before he heard the farmer's voice.

“One more thing”, the farmer said coldly, “Do not go in our basement.” The farmer said this in such a voice, John froze where he was and shuttered. He nodded silently and continued to the stairs. He could almost feel the eyes of the farmer on his back as he climbed to the top. He turned left and found his room.

The door creaked open and revealed a small, simple room with one window facing the street John had walked here on. The bed was small, but when John pushed his hand on it to test it, it sunk nicely. John closed the door and disrobed, stripping down to his boxers. He slid into the bed and found it was quite comfortable and he was more tired than he had known. He closed his eyes, knowing that sleep would come instantly for him, being so tired and having such a work-filled day.

But it didn't. John lay in the bed and examined small spots on the ceiling. The comforter was warm, the bed was nice, and John was tired, but as comfortable and as safe as he felt, John was unable to fall asleep. John's mind began to wander after minutes of no sleep crawled by.

First John thought of how the next day he was supposed to have been back home and how he had a meeting of importance. He had already bumped the appointment for his day off, but if he did not show up, he might be unaccepted for the case. He gave himself a mental slap for thinking about work. He'd think about work when he got back to it. In the meanwhile he had to enjoy this time he had set aside for himself.

The question his mind was really concerned about forced itself to be asked, “So what's in the basement I can't see?” He knew he didn't want to go down there. These people were very nice to him, and he had to respect them and their rules. But the farmer was so nice. “Why was he so cold when he told me not to go into the basement?” He'd never know, he supposed.

The question plagued his mind as he continued to examine the spots on the ceiling. He tried to wonder what caused the spots in the ceiling, but it was clear they were the result of a recent heavy downpour. He retold the stories the family had told him earlier at dinner, trying to stop thinking about the basement. He knew as long as he worried about the basement, he wouldn't get any sleep, and because he'd be visiting his old home tomorrow and then would have long ride back, he'd need all the sleep he could get.

John was actually very tired. From the shoveling and milking, his body was about to collapse. He closed his eyes, and darkness surrounded him. He took a deep breath, and then heard the farmer say in him mind, Do not go in our basement.” Chills rode down John's body again. He opened his eyes and sat up.

He sat in this position for a few minutes until he calmed down. When laid back down, he stared at the spots on the ceiling again, amusing himself by drawing pictures between the dots. He drew stairs and laughed at himself for being so immature. He took another deep breath, and decided that this farmer had been to good to him. He would not cross a man who had showed him such generosity. The farmer had given him a single tasked, asked but one thing of him in return for all this help. All he asked what that John not go into the basement. It was such a simple task. It was not even something he had to do, it was just something he had to not do. John realized his curosity was immature and he was displaying a weak will by even giving thought to it so he decided then and there he would not even entertain the thought of going down into the basement again.

John then stopped looking at the spots in the ceiling and instead closed his eyes and began counting sheep. He counted all the way to one hundred and thirty three sheep before the task began to drive him mad. His mind was wandering and he could not keep it in check by simply counting. So instead he tried something different and tried to instead think about his past and relive various memories, sort of a rehersal of these memories to keep them solid and perserve them for all time. He had read somewhere that this was a very good technique for keeping your memory strong, and he figured, considering his insomnia, that he wouldn't be falling asleep any time soon so instead he might as well make good use of the time.

John thought about his early years and how most parents are generally obsessed with their children but how his parents always seemed to preoccupied with each other. They would show him little attention and try to keep him occupied with other things. He remembered trying to give them drawings he made and getting dismissive comments like “Oh very nice” and then having the drawing thrown into the garbage. He remembered the tears that he shed alone when he would find his works of art in the garbage and the pain he felt by the rejection of his parents. He would probably need therapy some day to work all of this out. He had many unresolved issues, especially with his father who only gave him the time of day when he had lots of money. After dwelling on these thoughts for a bit John decided that many he didn't want to think about his past that much, becuase it would inevitbaly lead back to his childhood, something that he'd need a therapist to hold his hand during if he was to relive it.

John then started to think about the basement again. He was very dissapointed in himself for doing it but he started coming up with possible scenarios in his mind for why he shouldn't go down there. He imaged a team of tiny gnomes manufacturing illegal drugs in the basement, or the corpses of all the other people who had asked the farmer for help and stayed at his house stacked up to the ceiling, or possible a UFO that had crashed in the farmer's field that he was keeping in his basement... so many possibilities. John then physically shook his head and told himself that this line of thinking would do him no good. The farmer just didn't want John in his basement, he didn't need a reason why, John was a guest and this home was the farmers property that he had been invited into out of curtosy. He had no right to question this or enter a part of the house the farmer did not want him in. It was a selfish notion to want to explore what was in the basement.

John then closed his eyes tightly, as if putting pressure on his eyelids and squinting them shut would somehow help him fall asleep. He was getting frustrated, he had never felt quite like this before, so conflicted, so curious. Innately he wanted to explore the basement, but his social graces and conscience told him that he should not. It was as if a game of tug of war was being played within his mind. The only problem was, the more tired he grew, the less energy he had to consciously reject his impulses and the more he felt like taking a peak to put his mind at ease.

Something happened to him as the minutes rolled by like centuries and it became later and later in the night. His inhibitions vanished, as if each moment he spent lying there was a sip of a drink, and by the time the night was its absolute darkest, and the world its stillest, and he felt immersed by his curiosity and possessed by it, he could no longer resist. John took a deep breathe and decided that for his own mental health and piece of mind he had to take a tiny peek. What the farmer didn't know couldn't hurt him John figured. He would just take a little look at whatever it was he wasn't suppose to see and then he'd finally be able to rest. The basement was probably just cluttered and messy John thought, and figured he had built up this idea so much in his mind it would probably end up being something small and trivial and John would feel foolish for dedicating all his mental effort to such a thing.

He slowly uncovered himself and got out of bed. At this point, adrenaline had kicked in to replace his lack of sleep and he was fully awake. He realized it was a smart decision to put his clothes on for the trip. He quickly slipped into his clothing, socks, pants, shirt, belt, he was ready to go.

He opened his door very slowly, reminding himself there was a creak that was emitted with movement of the door. He started very slowly opening the door, but couldn't bear to hear the creak go on for so long, so he quickly but gently swung the door open and held it at a standstill. So far so good, he thought to himself.

He walked as lightly as he could down the hall, noticing he had no shoes on. This made it easier. He took extra care when passing by the bedroom between his and the stairs. When he had reached the stairs, he felt more free. Nobody would catch him. He'd just take a look and then return to bed. He had to be quick, because he didn't know what time these people woke up. He looked at his watch. 5 minutes to 4:00. Had he really stayed up that late?

He carefully sneaked downstairs. He had no clue where the basement was. He decided he would start in the rooms he had already been. He headed towards the dining room, but he saw a door when walking to it. He opened the door just a small amount, and peeked inside. He couldn't see anything, so he opened it more. A broom that was resting against the door slid and fell crashing to the floor. John froze. He could hear nothing, so slowly he lowered himself to the floor and returned the broom the closet it was in.

John considered turning back at this point, but couldn't bear to after replaying the cold voice in his head. “Was the man perhaps doing something illegal?” He had heard of farmers growing illegal substances in the middle of their fields, but unless he had fields in his basement, it was unlikely. He moved into the dining room. The farmer must have cleared the table of the dishes after he went to his room, he thought, because the dinner table was barren.

He continued to the living room. He saw no doors here, so he went to the entrance of the building. He saw there was a door behind his shoes. He noticed the old man's shoes where not there, but paid no mind. He moved his shoes out of the way, and opened the door. He was rewarded with the entrance to the basement.

“Great”, he thought, “Mission accomplished.” He would look at the basement and head back to his room and never be caught.

He took a step into the basement and noticed how dark it was. Squinting into the dark, he saw the outline of a lantern. He had nothing to light the lantern with, so he crept back into the kitchen as quietly as he could. He found a pack of matches above the oven and took them. He made a mental note to return the matches before he went back into bed so nothing would be out of place. He returned to the cellar door and lit the lantern. There was a small glow, and suddenly the light jumped and caught, revealing an old looking stairwell. He pocketed the matches, once again reminding him to return them on his way back to bed.

On his way down, he saw and lit two more lanterns. He was almost to the bottom of the stairwell when one of the steps collapsed beneath him. The rot seemed to have worn it away so much it gave way without much weight at all. He carefully removed his foot and climbed down the stairs. It seemed like these stairs had not been used in a long time. John worried that the farmer would now definitely know that John had been in the basement because of the broken stair, but he had not been down the stairs so long that they had had time to rot, he might think that the step broke just because of aging, and in any case, he had come to far now to back down. He stopped at the bottom to take in the view. There was a small, narrow hallway with wooden boards covering a dirt floor. He supposed this was just a hallway leading to the real cellar, so he walked down the hallway, noticing writing in red on the wall that said, “Get out!” and “Walk no further!”

This was humorous to John. No small writing was going to turn him back. Though the writing was slightly curious, because it seemed to have been scrawled by some ones finger… but he just couldn’t imagine someone using red finger paint… could it be blood? John decided the light was playing tricks with his eyes and it was probably just red paint. He was just going to take a peek and return quickly. He was ten times as curious now as he had been up in his bed due to the warning he now red. Perhaps there was something interesting down here worth seeing.

As he walked down the hallway his head hit something sharp. His reflexes sent his body backwards. From the dim light of the lanterns, so far away now, he could see boards and nails sticking out of the walls and the shadows they cast. He would have to proceed with caution. It was abundantly clear that no one had maintained this basement in a long time.

He nursed his wound, which was not serious and simply shimmied his way between the extrusions of both walls. At the end of the hallway, there was hardly any light with the exception of light that poured from the wall which outlined a door. He reached for the door handle, but he found he was unable to open it. It was locked.

This moment was the test. John could turn back now, and just go to bed. There is a difference between going through an unlocked door that you are asked not to enter and a locked door you have been asked not to enter. An unlocked door is almost an invitation to open it, but a locked door is a dead end. Breaking through locked doors is something that burglars and thieves do, not upstanding citizens. If John was his normal self, he would’ve exercised self control and simply went back to bed, but curiosity had fully possessed him, overridden his moral compass like a massive magnet nearby and eliminated his inhibitions. He really had no choice in the matter, he couldn’t will himself to do anything else, he had to continue.

He brought his body back a few feet, and slammed into it. The door did not budge, so he did it again. Still, the door remained stationary. He knew the door would give way. It was old, like the stairs. He tried again, and this time he heard a crack. This time he brought his foot back and kicked the door in.

The door slammed onto the ground. He realized now the family would know he was there, but he was too curious to care. If they put nails and boards there to injure him, they obviously had something worth hiding.

On the other side of the door there was a scene that grabbed his attention immediately. There, underground, on the other side of a basement door was a beach. He had never heard of such a thing. “Why would they have a beach in their basement?” He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the light. He looked for the light source and was surprised he couldn't find it. Now there was no way he was going to sleep. He had to find out why they had a beach in their basement. The beach wasn't very large. Both walls stopped the beach from extending much longer than 100 feet.

This was certainly not what John had expected, but it was definitely miraculous. He had never seen such a thing, an indoor underground beach. And the light, it really seemed like natural sunlight, but it had no distinguishable source and nothing seemed to cast a shadow. This was quite strange indeed. Could John be dreaming? He entertained the possibility until he remembered the wound he sustained and knew from the pain that this was in fact very real. That was when he noticed something.

Lying on the beach, there was a boat. The boat was facing towards the beach, it having made a dent in the sand and sand built itself around the edges of the boat. It was a rowboat, and both paddles where on board.

John walked back and forth on the beach for a moment, thinking about what he was going to do. He could see in the distance there was a small island. “What is on that island?”, he wondered. It could be almost anything, he knew. He would find out, and leave before they knew he was down in the cellar. He would be out of their home before they knew. Something in him told him that on that island was the real reason he was told not to enter the basement, what the farmer was hiding. This is what he had come to take a look at, the only cure to his overwhelming curiosity. The island seemed to reach out to him, and beckon him. He was defenseless to its pull, he would see what it held.

He jumped into the boat, and used the paddles to push off of the beach. He started the rhythmic motion of paddling. His arms were extremely sore from shoveling and from milking, so he paddled slowly.

Soon he began seeing signs and messages written on the walls with warnings. “Turn back now!”, “Stop while you can!”, “DANGER!”, “Trespassers will be punished!”, and others were written in a dark red color on the cool surfaces of the walls. The further he rode, the more frequent the signs. He almost laughed when he saw police tape draped from the walls. He even saw a buoy floating in the water with what looked like a metal orange construction sign expect for that it read “warning, turn back now.”

If he took his eyes off the walls and looked where he was headed, he could see a small piece of land. Both walls curved in to surround the island, so it seemed it was the only place to go. He wondered what time the farmer and the family woke up. He would have to make this a very quick trip if he was to make it back unnoticed. A brief glance at his watch revealed it was 4:07.

John sighed and averted his eyes from what was on the island. He wanted it to be a surprise for when he landed. He started to question himself, though. Was it really his business? Hadn't the family done enough for him that he could respect their simple request? What if they caught him?

Somehow the possibility of being caught made him more eager to do the deed. He had always been the kid who did exactly what you told him not to do and being in a work-free environment seemed to have stimulated that part of his persona. One time he had been told directly not to pull the fire alarm by one of his teachers in school. He hadn't been planning on it, but the teacher told him not to, so he grabbed the handle and yanked. The whole school was evacuated. It resulted in many detentions.

The small boat slowed as it hit land, and the sides and bottom grinded against the sands of the small land form. He sat for a few seconds to catch his breath from his paddling and felt the ache now that resided from shoveling manure the day before.

John stood in the middle of the boat and hopped out in a small leap, landing neatly with both feet on the ground. His eyes traveled from the sand at his feet to a cage in front of him. He blinked unconsciously. There was something very blue in the cage. Something large and blue. The cage itself was a rusted metal of some sort. Its rusted state was most likely the result of the water in the air.

The cage was nearly as wide as an SUV is long and the bars extended vertically from a metal plate on the ground to one several yards in the air. The bars were spaced evenly with about an inch and a half between them, and were nearly an inch in diameter. As a whole, the cage seemed very sturdy and seemed especially massive on the small island.

It interested him that they would have a cage on an island, through an underground water passage, with an underground beach, through a tunnel protected by boards and nails. But what really interested him was the contents of this well-hidden cage. Whatever it was, it moved up and down very gently and regularly, with a pattern that seemed familiar. John rounded the cage in the attempt to identify it, but before he could finish his path, a sign tipped him off.

The sign read, “DO NOT TOUCH THE BLUE MONKEY!”

Taken aback, John reread the contents of the sign, but his eyes were not fooling him. The sign really told him not to touch the blue monkey. It made sense, almost. If that blue thing in the cage where a monkey, and it were curled up and sleeping, it would explain the motions he saw.

Quietly, he sneaked around the cage. Sure enough, under the mass of blue fur, he saw a monkey's face. He had never seen anything like this before. He had watched plenty of environmental movies in school and on the History Channel, but never once did he see anything like this. There must be money in this, he thought. If only he had his cell phone, he could take a picture of it, he knew.

Seeing the blue monkey would have seemed a lot more abnormal to John if it didn't look so natural. It's color was a very blue tint, but it seemed almost as if it was meant to be that color. Some parts of the monkey were darker or lighter than others, indicating the wear on the fur or lack thereof.

The thing that stood out the most about the monkey was its great size. When standing up, John guessed it to be at least 8 feet tall. Its hands looked like tennis rackets and its take like a python. It looked powerful, he thought. At the same time, however, it looked very peaceful.

John now knew what was in the basement. He knew about the blue monkey. How could he ever just walk away from the house and not ask the farmer or his family about it? Why didn't they submit it? What do they feed it, and how often? How did they get it? There were too many questions to be left unanswered. He decided he had to ask the farmer about it. He would pay his way out of any trouble he had caused.

He got back in the boat, and took the paddles into his hand, not feeling tired in the least. It was funny he thought he could get to sleep by investigating the matter. He now found less sleep than he had before. He knew it was partially because of the adrenaline the body pumped into him due to his lack of sleep had really kicked in. He also knew he'd never get to sleep if he didn't have a few questions about the blue monkey answered first.

He pushed off the island and started to slowly paddle away. His neck hairs stood up as he felt the blue monkey's eyes on his retreating soul. He closed his eyes tightly, which seemed to help, opened them and looked back, but found that the monkey was still asleep. He stopped paddling. How could it be real? He felt ridiculous. There is no such thing as a gigantic, blue monkey, and he knew it. And in a farmer's basement? Unlikely. He paddled back to the island, determined. He would prove somehow it wasn't real, and then he could rest without ever having to ask the farmer about it. Without thinking, John reached his hand sideways into the cage and put his hand into the fur. It felt warm and soft, but nothing happened. He removed his hand from the cage and suddenly, the blue leaped up towards him.

John jumped back instinctively, dodging a large blue hand that shot out of the cage. His heart beat vigorously. Before him stood a nine foot tall monkey. The monkey was breathing heavily like it was angry or excited, and it slowly lowered itself onto all fours, bringing it down to his height.

He felt a great comfort in the cage standing between them. The cage looked thick and strong enough to prevent the escape of the monkey. Nervousness did reside in his mind, however, and he stepped back just in case. The monkey grabbed two bars, and with a simple outward motion, started to bend them. John cursed the rust of the bars, and jumped into the boat. He cast himself away from the island, assuming the monkey could not swim. He paddled away from the island, looking back at the monster he had just awakened. The monkey worked at the bars of the cage until a hole of a significant size was made.

The monkey tried to force itself though the hole it had made, but found it to be too small for its large body. The monkey thrashed wildly at the side of the cage until it collapsed. The monkey pulled itself out of the pile of metal and without pausing for a second, jumped into the water after John.

The huge wave that followed pushed John's boat a very large distance. He started paddling away from the monkey rapidly, not paying any mind to his sore limbs. The monkey was behind him, trying to swim with moderate success. Every time the monkey shot himself forward, another wave would push John's boat away from him.

John realized the danger and rowed as hard as he could. Both his paddles made very quick circles into and then out of the water, pushing his boat away from the monster that wanted so desperately to catch him. His heart beat like a machine gun, his hands gripped the paddles like a vice, and his breath worked like a vacuum.

It was a while before John realized he was gaining space between himself and the monkey. The monkey didn't seem to be a very good swimmer, and actually aided in his own escape. He grinned a bitter grin. There was no way he'd be able to hide the fact from the farmer's family that he had visit their basement now. He continued to row just as vigorously, hoping if he got enough distance between himself and the monkey, the monkey would give up.

He was in the middle of a powerful stroke when he felt a snap. He felt his right paddle give way and looked down at it with dread. His right paddle had broken with all the force. It was an old paddle, and therefore moldy and weakened by the ages.

John grabbed his left paddle and used it to alternate sides with, and continued to race away from the monkey. As a result, the boat made small meandering motions through the water. He could see the end now. He could see the beach. If only I could get to it, he thought. The monkey surely can't get through that hallway. That's why the must have put it there, he concluded.

John's hands seemed to leap from side to side with the paddle. Now with one less paddle, the monkey was gaining on John. John felt a cold shiver run down his spine as the second of his paddles broke. Without thinking, he jumped overboard. It was the only thing he could do.

He felt the shock of the cold in full. The water seemed to surround his very bones. He started to swim in the direction of the beach. He looked back and saw the monkey, lift the boat out of the water, and snap it in two at the realization he was no longer in it. John swam until he found he could touch the bottom.

He stood up, and walked slowly from the water, leaving the monkey inside the passage. Dripping, he exited through the door he had earlier kicked down. He ran his hands through his hair, ridding it of a great amount of moisture. He peeked back at the monkey. It was on the beach, and heading towards him. He ran a little ways down the hallway. Suddenly the doorway exploded inwards and the blue monkey squeezed himself through.

John turned and ran. He ran as fast as he could, and barely noticed the nails and boards that cut and bruised him. Going sideways was too slow. At one point, his shoulder, now completely red with blood, caught on a nail, and he had to wrestle himself free from it. He cleared the nails and boards, and fell to his knees.

The monkey seemed like it was having a tough time in this hallway, it was too large for it. On all fours, it was still almost too wide. It was obvious, though, that the blue monkey would try still to get John. So John jogged to the bottom of the staircase, using a glance at the monkey to justify the rest he was taking. The nails and boards hurt so much, he was dizzy with pain.

John's escape was not yet, over, though. The blue monkey walked through the nails and boards as if they were fleas. John turned and fled, as the blue monkey approached. Frightened by the sounds of the colossal creature, he ran up the stairs at full speed. He had forgotten the missing step, and his leg flew down it. John forgot the monkey as he heard the resulting crack.

It only took one look towards the monkey for John to know what he had to do. The monkey had a foul grin on its face, and stood at the foot of the staircase. It took one step, and the step broke, as did the second. John grabbed his leg and pulled himself to the top of the stairs. He was through the doorway when he chanced a look back. The monkey was too heavy for the staircase and whenever it tried to climb it, the staircase crumbed beneath him.

John couldn't watch any more. He pulled himself through their house and to the front door. It pained him to reach up and grab the handle, but he found an easy way to do it. He sat up against the wall like a child being punished and reached up over his head. He turned the door and as it swung outwards, he fell, too. He was in a complete mess. He was soaking, cut and bruised, and he had what was most likely a broken leg.

He crawled out of the house and onto the lawn, not bothering to close the door behind him. He saw his motorcycle in front of the house, which was not where he had left it. He heard the farmer's voice from within the shed.

“I see you are up early. Did you get a lot of sleep?” The farmer inquired, “I didn't, but I'm rather used to it now days, with so much work to do. I pushed your motorcycle to the house after I found our gasoline and filled it up. I couldn't push the truck, though, so if you could give me a hand, we'll fill that up, too.”

The resulting silence made the farmer suspicious. “Did you go down in our basement?”

A crash inside confirmed it, so the farmer, came out of his shed and gave a death glare to John. “I told you not to go in the basement!” He screamed. John wasn't really listening. He threw his wallet at the farmer and mounted his motorcycle carefully. He could see blue fur through the open doorway.

John revved up his motorcycle, and began to ride. He sped onto the road and could hear the front of the house shutter as the blue monkey broke free. The monkey must have climbed the wall under the staircase, John cursed. He could see the blue monkey following him now. He watched his speedometer. It was at forty miles an hour, but the monkey seemed to be catching up with frightening speed.

John hit the gas and watched his speedometer hit sixty, seventy and eighty. Now that the blue monkey was on dry land, it was very quick. Slowly the monkey gained on John. John stopped watching his speedometer and watched the monkey as he hit the gas. The monkey matched his speed. His leg was bothering him, and he could feel what he suspected to be a bone pressing against the inside of his skin. Tears of pain were wiped away from the great winds of his motorcycle.

John didn't know where he was going, exactly. He thought of going to a hospital, but what protection from the monkey would that add? He started to notice small buildings fly by him with greater and greater frequency. He looked back, and watched the blue monkey. It was still with him, a look of determination and hate on its face. John looked back, and saw a turn.

He tried to turn his motorcycle, but it was too sharp a turn for the speed he was riding at. The motorcycle turned sideways and he was partially crushed by it. The motorcycle slid into a tree, where he was pinned. The pain was unbearable, and John screamed at the top of his lungs.

The blue monkey slowed down, now, and watched John screaming with interest. Slowly the monkey moved towards him. John could go nowhere, he was pinned to a tree. Consciousness began to slip from him due to his lack of blood. He remembered he had thrown his wallet at the old farmer to appease him, but now there would be no way of identifying him if he died.

The blue monkey stepped over John, tapped him lightly and said, “You're it!”

JOURNAL 10 août 2026

Toujours chaud, chaud et nuageux. Dernier jour de surf. On va rendre nos combinaisons et les planches. Terminé pour la mer. On a bien profité de cette semaine, on s'est fait de nouveaux copains. On promet de revenir. Ils sont désolés de nous voir partir, pour une fois qu'il y a des filles dans leur bande... Ils sont gentils, passionnés par leur truc. Ils doivent dormir avec leur planche, je crois bien.

On rentre le cœur un peu serré. On va retrouver la ville et la pluie sur la ville Reste à faire les sacs. Shampooings traitants : on en a bien besoin, l'impression d'avoir des méduses sur la tête. Ce soir on se couchera tôt pour attraper le premier bus demain matin. Il faudra faire des courses en arrivant, ya rien à manger dans la maison à part du riz !

#surf

Greetings. This is my first post. It is mainly a test to see how this platform works. Now I will assess if it fits my designs. Though, if I'm not sure what my designs are, so evaluating this platform will be difficult. Or, rather, evaluating how I may use this platform and how well it will serve those needs is a goal that may be interminably elusive.

Also, I should note, I will not be reviewing my grammar/spelling/any content. Spelling and punctuation may be fucked but, as this content is free to observe, deal with it.

So it begins. The Blog of Sand is a reference to a short story I'm fond of, but that's for a future post to unpack. In the meantime, I'll close out this post.

The be never stops, no matter the color of the honey.

Jump to: Blue Honey | Judgement | Whiling | Mars Ascends | link 05 | Link0 6

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SUNDAY 5AM

Today... is a day. Not a great day. A challenging and unexpected day.

It started with early frustration.

Waking at five and simply existing, slipping in and out of lucidity. Intense dreams kept bleeding into reality. Moon was still up, brilliant as a day star, bright enough to illuminate the Well.

The dreams wouldn't let me go.

Hands. Fingers. Toes. Whispers and shouts. Nothing unpleasant. Just intense, insistent, almost physical.

I woke carrying a hunger that had nowhere to go.

Someone was there in the dream, close enough to touch, willing and warm, while the rest of the world seemed impossibly far away. Another presence lingered at the edge of it all, unconcerned, as though none of this had anything to do with her.

For a while, the dream kept asking.

I kept refusing.

Apparently moon was going to have to learn to live with disappointment.

Byt 6:45 she started to stir. And quickly sprung to life. This is new. When she left before school, I rarely saw her before 9, more usually 11. Today though. Life found her early. Apparently getting up for an 8 hour class every day for a week shifted some patterns.

But she was grouchy. Don't like that.

A burning orange ray of sunshine shot through the gap in the curtain and filled my retina with a lovely warmth but blinding light. Sitting up, I started to describe the dappling patterns, the bees at the roses. This will only last moments, glorious works of art like this cannot sustain.

The best things in life are temporary. Thankfully, they are also cycles.

I wonder if the greedy could commodify the glory of a sunrise, they would? Box it and brand it, selling on the shelf of a big box store. The rich could buy deluxe versions and vintage versions of sunrises over famous events.

This is a rich man's sunrise enjoyed by a pauper who feels glorious and rich as the light crawls down by slumped body on the edge of the bed. I want to run out into the wet grass and soak it all up.

But Oscar, she's not having it. She wants to 'talk'.

I, a master communicator, negotiate a kinder space. We read a chapter about Abraham and Sarah. Half brother and sister who married and set out on adventure. The story describes Sarah as a real stunner. The prettiest in all the land. I comment on the illustration; it show Sarah dutifully by her man. Not a worry in the world. So much love and respect in her heart. She clearly very deeply esteemed that man.

I dont' deserve this level of admiration. But I desire it.

Deeply.

Is it possible that it is what I desire most?

I thought I had earned it. I definitely lost it if I did. But, just between you me? I don't think everyone is capable of giving that kind of loyalty and dedication. OR, if they are, it takes the perfect fit.

The conversation turns back to the challenges of personality. This person fails this way. I have disappointed that. It's not ugly. But I start to defend and reason when I realize I am attempting to defend my own sanity.

and when we first set forth to convince others we are sane, we have lost.

So, I go into 'yes dear'. That trusty subroutine of letting it out. Someimtes you just need a wall to throw things at. Maybe a gym adn a punching bag would be a better solution.

Blue Honey

---

By 845, it's clear that this morning will require complete attention. Being gone so long, she's built up a need to tell me everything on her mind. She spent the week with her youngest sister. They were never teh best of friends. Loving each other? yes. But youngest is a bit of a control freak and doesn't have the patience my better half needs to thrive.

“Let's go to breakfast.” I suggest, and it is readily agreed. In short order we're driving around this little burg on a Sunday morning and realize quickly that options are limited. But the morning is beautiful and the drive enjoyable.

Some subjects we wade into a heavy. There is conversation about me and who I have become. Things I have done which she doesn't like and for which I cannot defend. And to try to just sounds like excuses. And when they don't they are painted that way regardless.

It's not fun. But I think it is necessary.

A week with her sister and a day with her Mom refreshes the old personality in which she was raised.

I reminder her that blue honey comes from somewhere.

“Blue honey?” she asks.

In North Carolina, there is a rare and strange phenomenon of beekeepers finding blue and purple honey in their hives. Not yellow blue or gold-blue. Bright rich colors of blue or purple.

They don't know for certain why it happens. A master beekeeper who directs the Native Bee Conservancy of Washington State, says that a lot of circumstantial evidence points to the inky-violet flower of the kudzu. But there's doubt because bees can't pierce the skin.

In at least one instance in France, a beekeeper found flourescent blue honey. Unnaturally blue. Investigation discovered that the bees ha found an open container of the blue dye used in M&M's at a candy factory. They were just drinking the blue syrup and creating gorgeous honey.

Probably NOT labeled 'organic', just 'cool'.

She stares at me blankly. “Aaaaand?”

“I'm just pointing out that the color of our person comes from somewhere. We are an amalgamation of our parents, our life, and those with whom we spend time.

Then the conversation turns to if I am depressed.

The point is missed and I am powerless to do little but feed her a burrito and coffee.

Coffee makes everything better. Even though it isn't blue.

---

Lest Ye Be Judged

We go to a meeting and discuss the future of the human race, God's hope that everyone listen to his commands. The speaker is squirrelly and has clearly failed to prepare adequately.

In the fist 10m of the 30 minute discourse, he asks the question “Why?”, more that 40 times. As a former public speaker, I know this loop: You have clever premise, you get stuck in it because you didn't prepare well enough and lose what comes next, so you keep repeating the 'clever' thing thinking it sounds like you're doing a bit, but really you're lost.

He was lost. Poor guy.

Then 22 minutes into his 30 minute outline, he just stops talking and walks off the stage. The audience was stunned. No clapping. Just crickets. We had no idea what was going on.

The following discussion was all about judging other people. The point was: everyone gets to make their own decisions, unless what they do is violating God's laws leave them to it. Try to make decisions that won't be too hard for others to accept.

My dear dear wife. She come from a very judgmental family. They have opinions about what EVERYONE should be or not be. It comes from Queen Bee Mom.

So we spend half an hour discussing what Jesus said in Matthew 19:13—'I want mercy, not sacrifice.'

Jesus came for the sinners, the broken, the disenfranchised. Not the shiny perfect righteous folks. So, every single one of us called to know God are some form of broken. Oh, we pretend to be better than that, but we're not. Try it long enough and you'll find out. You cannot be something you are not. You're going to give in to that which you desire most unless you trust God completely.

So those who 'do bad things' aren't wicked. Hell, they aren't even weak. They just get lost in the weeds of being a human being. They do very very human things. How terrible that we see those who fall short of God's standards and say they are somehow 'less' or 'bad' or, God forbid, 'wicked'.

Low sinks of debaucher are not where lovers of God get. They simply fail. make real mistakes that they may carry with them their whole lives. There's not need for us to remind them of the scars they carry.

Ask me how I know.

In fact, making some pretty hard pushes against God's boundaries has had some interesting personalty developments. I absolutely have WAY more compassion for those who can't meet those standards consistently.

Regardless, we just don't need to constantly point out how bad people are. They're not. They are just doing the BEST they can. It's possibly less best as us, maybe more.

But love lets us accept them.

Big ships turn slowly, but we'll get turned eventually to see one another with love and not judge them by their least appealing qualities.

Hell, some of my least appealing qualities are my ability to love other people. I don't want that to go away. I like it. And others like it in me.

YMMV.

---

Whiling

She is very tired. So we turn off the house and our lives and just lay in bed for the afternoon. She sleeps. I slip in and out, fighting against going in too deep. I don't want to flip my schedule back to up all nights.

So I have strange dreams talking to old friends an lost llamas. They are nonsensical and I don't think they mean anything.

After an hour, I decide it's time for some work. Get a head start.

But I fall down teh well of file-keeping and learning javascript. I don't need to. But I have a compelling desire to know how this stuff all works.

I break the site. Then I fix it.

Then I write.

---

Stolen Picasso Returned!

I read in the news this morning that an original Pablo Picasso etching which had been stolen from Milwaukee almost a decade ago had been returned. The owner reported that someone had simply walked in picked it off the wall and walked out of the gallery.

Worth about $50k it was gone for 8 years.

Then someone walked in with it to the police station adn gave it back.

Picasso in 1949.

---

Mars Ascends

A glorious night here in Texas Mars is shining bright overhead. The crickets are relaxed and the breeze is making it cool outside. It’s a spectacular night to sit out. I think we’ll make nachos and watch a movie. What movie though?

Cinderella Story – Hillary Duff

Everything's all wrong, yeah Everything's all wrong, yeah Where the hell did I think I was?

https://open.spotify.com/track/5fIrBv7PrI2MBcktQOcmpI?si=5Vpmb27CSAO-htcJFTrDKA&utm_source=copy-link

---

Link 0 — Day 60

And I'll be your crying shoulder, I'll be love's suicide And I'll be better when I'm older, I'll be the greatest fan of your life.

https://open.spotify.com/track/5K7AMlpc4796JRWXb26nCV?si=YvTnUphzR0m9c-pEMfucJw&utm_source=copy-link

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#deardiary

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After Happy Hour is currently in the middle of its reading period for the winter issue, which means that I've been reading a lot of short stories lately. I look for a lot of different things when I'm reviewing stories for the issue and trying to decide which ones we should publish, from rounded characters to an interesting voice to a logical plot that I haven't seen a thousand times before. One thing that I've noticed consistently across genres, though, is that the author's command of descriptive language usually directly correlates to the strength of the piece overall. 

Descriptions in fiction do more than just help the reader picture what's happening on the page. What characters notice about their world, and how they talk about it, gives us a lot of insight into their worldview. Writers can also use descriptions to teach the reader what's important about the place, time period, or culture that the story inhabits, and to direct their attention to key details of the setting that impact the plot or how characters behave (or to set up misdirections or red herrings that lead to nice moments of surprise later in the piece). The strongest stories we get at After Happy Hour recognize this multi-faceted potential of the seemingly humble description, and that's consistently true whether the piece is literary or hard sci-fi or anything in between. 

Mistakes writers make with descriptions

I always feel like I need to give the caveat that writing is subjective, and the kind of descriptive language that I love isn't necessarily going to tickle every editor the same way. That said, there are a few issues I see consistently that I think it's safe to say most editors would flag as a problem. The ones I see the most often are:

• Overwritten descriptions. This is something I see especially in sci-fi and fantasy stories. The writer really wants to make sure that the reader can picture their unique planet or creature or technology or whathaveyou, so they go on and on describing every little minute detail. In the process, they bring the story's forward momentum to a grinding halt.
• Missing descriptions. On the other end of the spectrum, some writers fail to provide the reader with any physical details of the setting or characters. Sparse descriptions can be very effective, but if there isn't any information about the sights, sounds, smells, or other tangible details of the story, the reader can't completely get immersed in it. 
• Focusing on a character's “driver's license details.” There's a habit I've noticed newer writers often develop where they introduce new characters in a very formulaic way. In the first introduction, we'll get the character's basic physical description—age, height, eye color, hair color, the type of information you'd find on their ID. The instinct to pair a description with the character's introduction is sound, but those are the exact wrong details to pick because they don't tell us anything distinctive about that individual.  
• Descriptive language that doesn't match the story. Flowery gothic-inspired descriptions definitely have their place, but if the story is set in the present or future, and the other narration and character dialogue are more down-to-earth and modern, that kind of language is going to stand out in the wrong way. The same is true of other mis-matches, where the things that are described, or how they're described, don't fit the tone, genre, and character's perspective. 
• Relying on weak or overused words. The more expected and familiar a word, phrase, or description is, the less interesting it is for the reader. That means it's also less useful for describing characters or places since it will be less likely to stick in the reader's mind. Descriptions are a lot more entertaining to read if you swap common, vague words with a more specific term or detail. 

Tips to write stronger descriptions

Avoiding those mistakes in the last section is a solid place to start, though I'm also aware that it's not always so easy or obvious as that. For me, the first step is remembering the purpose of descriptions. Like I said in the intro, they really need to do three things at the same time: 

1. Effectively convey whatever is being described

2. Reflect the voice and perspective of the viewpoint character or narrator, and 

3. Give the reader insight into the setting and/or characters

...and to do that, you need to know more than just what the thing you're describing looks like. This tells you the “what” of the description—the actual straightforward physical details that you could share with the reader. But you also need to put it in context—how the viewpoint character would relate that thing, for starters, but also how it fits into the broader world or society your story exists in. That's what tells you the “how” of the description writing, things like your word choice and which details you'll focus on. 

A few other suggestions:

1. Match description length to the person, place, or item's importance in the story.

While novelists get some more room to play, short story writers need to operate more efficiently, and save their descriptive passages for things that they want the reader to focus on. As a general rule, the things that are most important to the story should get the most description. You can get away with a chunky description of the protagonist, for instance, but the gas station attendant that only comes up once should get a few words at most. 

2. Skip expected or mundane details.

Anything that your readers have seen before, they can generally use their imaginations fill in the gaps in your descriptions. As the writer, what you need to tell readers is where your version is different from their mental template—and, specifically, the differences that are important for them to understand. The reader probably doesn't need to know things like the exact color and placement of the furniture in a room, just the key pieces the character navigates around as they move through it. Similarly, you usually don't need a full head-to-toe accounting of characters' outfits—highlighting a favorite piece of jewelry or a clothing item that sums up their vibe will do more to focus the character in readers' minds. 

3. Use descriptive language to form emotional links with the character. 

Showing a character's connection to their setting helps them feel integrated into it, which makes the world feel more lived in and creates the kind of setting where the reader can see themselves moving through it. The best uses of this approach also integrate something that's central to the plot or the character's emotional journey. So for instance, say your protagonist is in their apartment the day after their long-term partner broke up with them and moved out. Instead of just describing a few random details of the apartment, you can hone in on the things that remind the protagonist of their ex, or visible signs of their absence, like too-clean spaces on the rug or walls. The same approach can be used if you're describing an object or person. Framing that description in the context of the character's relationship to it inherently connects them in the reader's mind, and can be a way to slip in backstory details without it feeling like an info dump. 

4. Consider pacing when placing description.

In fast-paced action sequences when you want to keep the reader pushing forward, stick to short one-to-two-word descriptions worked into active sentences that maintain that energy. Lengthy descriptive passages in the middle of fast-paced scenes or conversations break the rhythm and steal their momentum. You want to save longer descriptive passages for moments when you want the reader to linger.

5. Check figurative language for logic and character consistency.

You can apply the same advice for other descriptive language to metaphors and similes. The point of reference the thing or person is being compared to should feel like it fits within the viewpoint character's framework. So it makes sense if a 20th-century mechanic compares a noise to a revving engine, but not if your character is an Arthurian knight. Along with this, make sure that the comparison you're using actually makes logical sense and conveys the qualities you intend. So if you think about a simile like “sharp as a tack”, it makes sense because a tack is very sharp in a very specific way. But saying “sharp as a rock” doesn't work as well because not all rocks are sharp. I always give all of my figurative language a quick logic check on a late editing pass just to make sure they all work.

See similar posts: 

#WritingAdvice #Fiction #Worldbuilding

I think I'm still in the middle of acknowledging self-compassion with this week. In my current state, I am attempting to make decisions in which I can get annoyed with myself out of what I think might just be a self-taught and experience-learned ignorance.

My migraines are still coming and going on a dime. I am referencing the incapacitating variety. I must acknowledge that I've had a pretty constant intense headache for at least a few weeks now. I'm so capable of pushing intense headaches/non-incapacitating migraines to the side, that I don't do myself any favors with the tendency. An example would be I'm currently tapping on my phone though I can feel the visual nausea, and the majority of the last twelve hours has been excruciating and incapacitating. The smart kitty would completely disregard her phone.

In fact, though I have the backlight as dim as possible, it's bright enough for me that my eyes feel like they're being stabbed, and I can feel myself starting to get dragged back under. I'm trying to ignore it because the sleep paralysis has sucked today. I can tell I'm not going to succeed, so I'm attempting to race towards a point where this entry at least feels finished.

Stuck. In these moments, I feel stuck. I must base my success on the smallest of most basic accomplishments when like this. It both annoys the hell out of me, but also gifts me with the recognition of how fortunate I am. As it could be so much worse. I have had many people get very annoyed with me for saying that. In many ways, I hope they remain ignorant enough to stay annoyed. In others, I wonder if it'd have a positive change for the world if more understood just how much worse it could be. I am really damn lucky.

With that said, my weight loss stalled this week. I expected it to be worse with my comfort seeking eating choices. Exercise has been purely minimal. I am moving. That's what is most important. My mood is positive, though I've had a few moments of not exactly despair. More longing, I think. Longing for the impossible can suck at times. Alas, I still find myself doing it. I think, at times, it has kept me sane. To believe in possibility can be a superpower. I remind myself that if I purely listened to what experts or popular opinion say, the last 35 years of my life would be drastically different, because I would have never walked again. Not only have I walked, I've ran a marathon, and I am not a long-distance runner in any way, shape, or form.

It feels a bit silly to bring something so old up, but it is a good reminder that believing in myself can equate to most encouraging achievements. What it can't do, apparently, is stave off the migraine-induced sleep I'm being pulled towards.

The world is changing faster than I think most of us are capable of acknowledging. That sucks, and is frightening. However, it's fascinating to observe on a multitude of levels. How fortunate to see it. I do not like having the multiple weaknesses during such a time. I'd much prefer capability as a given. Alas, it is not. Nor is it really for any of us.

I am sickened by my government. The choices being made for all of us outright pisses me off. That a bunch of spoiled and neglectful imbeciles can ecstatically create so much hardship and destruction while being cheered on by the very people they eagerly wound creates a soul-deep emotion within me that I do not have a name for. I feel a very strong sense of loss for our reality. We might just be the pinnacle of failed experiments for our Universe. I can only hope that we or other creatures will learn something positive before devastation proves to be a relentless houseguest.

For now, my nose wishes me to finish with my alphabet poking before it moves out of the way and my eye gets a new pounding to contend with. 😸 I will be most pleased if I do not get pulled back into the same dream/nightmares. All in all, I am counting this week as a success. There's plenty I did not get done that I wanted to. Yet I still have found myself smiling more than not, and I have not beat myself up for the unavoidable.

I am learning that expectation can be one of the most vile systems in existence. Like many things, it's a positive as long as it isn't misused nor blindly delivered. I am learning to be less expectant and more accepting of myself. At least that's what I'm telling myself. The beauty of learning is both the allowance and expectation to consistently fuck up along the journey. No wonder the long-awaited arrival is most generous in giving the option to expand and continuously learn with both our greatest leaps and our almost constant stumbles.

How's that for dragging oneself across the finish line? Perhaps there's a reason humans learn to crawl before we walk...The training wheels never really go away.

Written August 9, 2026. © 2026 AnOublietteofThought.

Chapter 1: The Prayer He Changed Before Saying It Aloud

Owen knew what he wanted to say when the prayer circle reached him. Eight people were sitting on folding chairs in the church basement, and a paper cup of coffee had gone cold between his shoes. One person asked for healing after surgery. Another asked for help with a child who was struggling in school. When everyone looked toward Owen, the honest sentence rose quickly: “I am afraid God has stopped listening to me.” He could not make himself say it. He smiled, looked down, and asked for peace during a stressful week. If you have learned to make your fear sound more acceptable before bringing it to God, what Jesus says when fear has taken over your prayers may give you permission to stop hiding.

The group leader thanked Owen for sharing and moved to the next person. No one knew that “a stressful week” meant he had been waking before four in the morning with his chest tight. No one knew he had begun avoiding prayer because every attempt seemed to confirm the silence he feared. He still believed in Jesus, or at least he wanted to. The problem was that his belief no longer felt clean. It had doubt inside it, and Owen thought doubt had to be removed before prayer became faithful. He needed an honest Christian reflection on anxiety and trusting God that could hold the words he was too embarrassed to say in a church basement.

After the meeting, Owen stayed behind to help stack the chairs. He was usually the person who made himself useful when conversation became personal. Carrying chairs gave his hands a task and kept anyone from asking whether he wanted to talk. By the time he walked to his car, the honest sentence had returned. He sat behind the steering wheel with the key in his hand and whispered it where no one could hear: “Jesus, I think you have stopped listening.”

The words frightened him after they left his mouth. He waited for guilt to arrive, and it did. He had been taught that God was faithful, prayer was powerful, and doubt should be resisted. All of that made him wonder whether he had crossed a line by naming what he felt. He tried to correct the prayer immediately. He said he knew God had not stopped listening and apologized for saying otherwise. Nothing about the correction made him feel closer to Jesus. It only restored the version of himself he knew how to present.

Many people pray this way without realizing it. They begin with what is true, then replace it with what sounds faithful. “I am angry” becomes “I know everything happens for a reason.” “I feel abandoned” becomes “I trust your timing.” “I do not want this life” becomes “Help me be grateful.” The second sentences may contain truth, but when they are used to cover the first ones, prayer becomes a performance.

God is not deceived by that performance. He already knows the thought beneath the sentence. We are not protecting his feelings by hiding ours. We are protecting ourselves from the fear that the real person may not be welcome.

The Gospels give us a scene in which a father brings a suffering child to Jesus after the disciples fail to help. The situation has been painful for years. The father asks Jesus to do something if he can. Jesus responds by turning attention toward belief. The father does not offer a polished answer. He cries out that he believes and asks Jesus to help his unbelief.

The prayer contains both faith and its struggle. The father does not wait until doubt is gone. He brings belief and unbelief in the same sentence. Jesus does not refuse him because the mixture is imperfect. He helps.

This matters for anyone who thinks prayer must be emotionally pure before Jesus receives it. The father’s words were not a model of certainty. They were a model of honesty directed toward the right person. His faith was visible in the act of bringing what he could not fix to Jesus, even while part of him struggled to trust.

Owen had imagined belief as a room doubt could not enter. The Gospel showed belief reaching toward Jesus while doubt was already present. That was a different kind of faith from the one Owen had been trying to perform. It did not pretend confidence. It refused to let uncertainty end the conversation.

The distinction is quiet but important. Doubt can become a reason to turn away from Jesus, or it can become something we bring to him. Fear can isolate us, or it can become the truth that begins prayer. The feeling itself does not decide the direction. What we do with it matters.

Owen’s fear had been growing for months. There was no single disaster behind it. Work had become less stable. His mother was beginning to need more help. His youngest child would leave for college the following year. The news made the world feel harsh and unpredictable. Each concern was manageable on its own. Together, they created the sense that everything familiar was loosening at once.

He kept asking God for clarity, but clarity was not what he wanted most. He wanted proof that none of the changes would hurt. When no proof came, he interpreted uncertainty as silence. God had not given the answer Owen demanded, so Owen began wondering whether God had answered at all.

This happens when we reduce listening to agreement. If God does not remove the pressure, open the preferred door, restore the relationship, or create the feeling we requested, we may conclude that prayer went unheard. Yet a person can be heard completely without receiving the answer they want. Jesus himself experienced this in Gethsemane.

He asked the Father, if it were possible, for the cup to pass. The cross still came. That does not mean the Father ignored the Son. The prayer in the garden was held inside perfect relationship, honest desire, sorrow, and surrender. Being heard did not mean being spared.

This is difficult because many of us have been taught to recognize answered prayer mainly through favorable change. We celebrate the clear scan, the restored job, the repaired marriage, and the safe arrival. We should celebrate those gifts. But if those are the only answers we know how to recognize, people who receive harder outcomes may assume their faith was weaker or their prayers mattered less.

Jesus never made a favorable earthly outcome the measure of the Father’s love. The cross prevents us from doing that. The beloved Son walked through suffering while remaining loved. His pain was not proof of abandonment, even when he voiced the language of abandonment from the cross.

That cry should make us careful about shaming honest prayer. Jesus used the words of a psalm that begins with the question of why God has forsaken the speaker. He entered human anguish fully enough to speak from inside it. Christians do not honor him by acting as if faithful people never use such words.

Honesty is not the same as treating every feeling as a final truth. Owen felt unheard. That feeling deserved to be spoken, but it did not prove Jesus had stopped listening. Prayer allowed the feeling to enter a relationship where it could be held, questioned, and slowly changed. Hiding left it alone where it sounded like the only truth available.

The difference resembles opening a closed room. What is inside the room does not disappear when the door opens. Light reaches it. Another presence can enter. Prayer does not require fear to leave before Jesus comes near.

Owen remained in the car for several minutes. He decided not to correct the sentence again. Instead, he added another one: “I do not know how to hear you right now.” Then he sat in silence.

No sudden comfort came. The parking lot lights buzzed above the car, and someone pushed a trash bin toward the side of the building. Owen felt disappointed by the ordinary silence. Still, the prayer had changed because he was no longer speaking from behind a mask.

Intimate prayer can feel less spiritual at first. Without polished language, there may be only a frightened sentence, a tired body, and silence. We may miss the emotional lift produced by saying what we think we should believe. Honest prayer offers something deeper than that temporary lift. It brings the actual relationship into view.

Relationships cannot grow through permanent editing. If every difficult feeling is removed before it is spoken, the other person interacts only with a safe version of us. Human relationships require wise boundaries, but relationship with Jesus begins from the fact that nothing is hidden from him anyway. The editing creates distance only on our side.

This does not mean every private thought should be announced publicly. Owen was right to use care in the prayer circle. Trust is not owed equally to every room. Some people know how to hold another person’s honesty. Others offer quick correction because uncertainty makes them uncomfortable. A person may need to begin with Jesus, a counselor, a pastor who listens well, or one mature friend.

What matters is that the fear no longer remains completely alone. Isolation allows shame to tell us no other believer has thought this way. Honest connection reveals how common these hidden prayers are.

The following morning, Owen opened the Gospel of Mark and read the story of the father again. He noticed details he had overlooked. The father was not having an abstract discussion about faith. His child was suffering in front of him. His words came from exhaustion, failed attempts, and desperate love. Jesus did not demand that he separate belief from pain before asking for help.

Owen wrote the father’s prayer on a small piece of paper and placed it inside his wallet. He did not use it as a formula. He used it as permission. Belief and unbelief could both be brought into the same conversation with Christ.

Throughout the day, the sentence in his wallet became more relevant than he expected. His manager scheduled a meeting without explaining why. Owen felt fear rise and quietly prayed, “I believe; help what is afraid.” His mother called because she had misplaced an appointment card. Owen became irritated, then admitted, “I want to be patient, and I am scared about what this change means.”

These prayers did not solve the situations. They stopped him from pretending the situations touched only the calm parts of him. Honesty made room for wiser action. He could ask his manager what the meeting concerned instead of imagining a layoff. He could help his mother locate the information while also beginning a needed conversation with his sister about sharing responsibilities.

Fear becomes harder to examine when it is hidden beneath spiritual language. If Owen said only that he trusted God with his mother, he might avoid admitting that caregiving support was needed. If he said only that God would provide at work, he might avoid gathering facts. Honest prayer did not replace action. It clarified what was actually happening.

Jesus often asked people questions before acting. He asked a blind man what he wanted him to do. He asked a man near a pool whether he wanted to be made well. He asked grieving sisters where Lazarus had been laid. The questions were not requests for information Jesus could not obtain. They invited people to speak from inside their need.

There is dignity in being asked. It treats the person as more than a problem. Jesus did not always assume that the obvious surface request contained the whole story. Prayer can become the place where we hear his question: What do you actually want from me?

Owen’s first answer was safety. He wanted his job, mother, children, health, and world protected from every painful change. When he admitted that desire, he could also admit that no human life receives such a guarantee. The deeper request emerged slowly. He wanted to know he would not be alone inside change.

That prayer could be answered without pretending change would disappear. Jesus had already promised presence. Owen had been looking only for advance information and favorable outcomes, so presence had seemed like a smaller gift. It was becoming the gift beneath every other one.

Presence is not always felt. This needs to be said plainly. A person can believe Jesus is near and still experience numbness, panic, grief, or spiritual dryness. Emotion is one way we perceive reality, but it is not the only witness to reality. The promise of Jesus does not become false on a day when the body cannot feel it.

Sometimes the faithful act is to lean on the promise through another person. Owen eventually asked the prayer group leader whether they could speak privately. He did not begin with every detail. He said he had been struggling to pray because God felt silent.

The leader did not answer immediately. He asked how long Owen had felt this way and whether the anxiety was affecting sleep. That question mattered because it treated Owen as a whole person rather than a theological problem. They spoke about prayer, but they also spoke about stress, caregiving, and the possibility of counseling if the early waking continued.

Owen left without a neat explanation for God’s silence. He did leave with the name of one person who knew the real prayer. The church basement no longer contained only the edited version of him.

The next week, the prayer circle reached Owen again. He was not ready to say everything. He asked for prayer because anxiety had been affecting his sleep and because changes in his family felt heavier than he had admitted. The request was simple, specific, and true.

No one moved away. One person nodded with recognition. Another asked afterward whether Owen wanted to talk about caring for an aging parent. The group did not become perfect because he was honest. It became more real.

Jesus had not required Owen to arrive with certainty. He had met him in the sentence that contained fear, doubt, desire, and a small reaching toward faith. That was the part Owen had been editing out. It was also the place where relationship began to feel alive again.

When Owen returned to his car, he did not wait until the doors closed to tell the truth. He sat behind the wheel and prayed the first words that came: “Jesus, I am still afraid you are quiet, and I am here.” The prayer did not resolve the future. It did something more intimate. It stopped asking the frightened part of him to remain outside while the acceptable part spoke to God.

Chapter 2: The Song She Stopped Singing Halfway Through

Renee stopped singing before anyone around her noticed. The church lights were low, and the words of the song were displayed in white letters above the stage. The congregation sang about God never failing, but Renee could not make the next line leave her mouth. It had been one year since her younger brother died. She had prayed through his diagnosis, treatment, decline, and final night. People had prayed beside her. They had used confident words. Her brother had still died.

She lowered her head as if she were praying, but she was trying not to cry. The song continued around her, full and certain. Renee believed God was faithful in the way she had been taught to believe it. She also felt angry every time someone said so without making room for the hospital room, the unanswered prayer, and the empty chair at her mother’s house.

When the music moved into another verse, Renee slipped out through the side door. The hallway was bright and quiet. She walked past the children’s classrooms and sat on a bench near the coat rack. Her first thought was that she had failed the test grief kept giving her. A stronger Christian would have stayed. A stronger Christian would have sung through the tears. A stronger Christian would have found comfort in the words instead of feeling wounded by them.

Grief can make familiar faith language feel strange. A sentence that once gave comfort may begin sounding incomplete. A song written from another person’s victory may be difficult to sing from inside your loss. This does not always mean faith is dying. It may mean the person can no longer survive on language that moves too quickly past what happened.

Renee had become skilled at saying what others expected. When someone asked how she was doing, she said God was carrying the family. That was partly true. Meals had appeared, bills had been helped with, and friends had stayed close. It was also true that she sometimes sat in her car after work and shouted questions she would never say inside church.

She had not admitted the anger because it felt dangerous. Fear told her that anger would reveal unbelief, and unbelief might separate her from the brother she hoped to see again. The more she loved him, the more carefully she managed her thoughts about God.

This is another way prayer becomes edited. We remove anger because we think gratitude is safer. We remove disappointment because we think surrender should have settled it. We speak about God in ways we cannot yet speak to God. The relationship becomes formal at the exact moment we need honesty most.

The Gospels give grieving people more room than that. When Jesus arrived near Bethany after Lazarus had died, Martha went out to meet him. Her first recorded words carried both trust and protest: if Jesus had been there, her brother would not have died. She did not begin by protecting him from the force of her disappointment.

Mary later came to Jesus and said the same thing. She fell at his feet, weeping. The people with her were weeping too. Jesus did not correct the sisters for naming the painful distance between what they believed he could have done and what had happened. He became deeply moved.

Then Jesus wept. That sentence is short in Scripture because grief does not always need explanation. Jesus knew he would call Lazarus from the tomb. He still cried. Future resurrection did not make present death unworthy of tears.

This matters because Christians sometimes use hope to hurry grief. A person is reminded that their loved one is with God before anyone has listened to what the absence feels like. They are told everything happens for a reason, that God needed another angel, or that the loss will become a testimony. Some of those words are theologically careless. Even when well intended, they can make the grieving person feel pressure to protect everyone else from the discomfort of sorrow.

Jesus did not stand outside the grief in Bethany and offer a slogan. He entered it. He saw the tears, felt the weight, and wept. His knowledge of resurrection made him more able to remain near death, not less willing to acknowledge it.

Renee had read John 11 many times, but she had focused on Lazarus walking out of the tomb. Sitting near the coat rack, she remembered the tears before the miracle. Her brother had not walked out of his hospital room. The difference hurt. Yet the tears of Jesus told her that her sorrow was not an embarrassing failure to reach the hopeful ending.

Christian hope is not the promise that every Bethany scene ends with a restored earthly life. Lazarus himself eventually died again. The sign pointed beyond one family’s relief toward Jesus, who called himself the resurrection and the life. Hope rests in him, not in the expectation that every prayer will produce the outcome we want now.

That distinction does not make loss easier. It makes hope honest enough to survive loss. If faithfulness means God will always prevent the event we fear, grief will feel like proof that either God failed or we did. If faithfulness means God remains true to his character and final promise through death itself, tears do not have to become accusations against our faith.

Renee’s anger still needed somewhere to go. She could not simply replace it with a correct statement about resurrection. Anger is often grief refusing to become quiet. It points toward what mattered, what seemed wrong, and what we believed love should have protected.

Not every conclusion anger makes is true. Pain can accuse God of cruelty, assume abandonment, or turn against innocent people. Honesty does not require us to treat every angry thought as revelation. It requires us to bring the thought into relationship rather than allowing it to grow alone.

The Bible’s prayers of lament do this openly. They ask how long, why, and where God is. They remember past faithfulness while describing present darkness. They ask for action and sometimes speak with startling force. These prayers were preserved in Scripture rather than removed for sounding disrespectful.

Jesus prayed from those words on the cross. His cry of forsakenness came from a psalm that begins in anguish and continues through trust. He did not avoid the language of abandonment in order to appear spiritually composed. He carried human suffering into prayer.

Renee had been afraid anger would end her relationship with God. Lament offered another possibility. Anger could become speech directed toward God rather than silence moving away from him. The prayer did not have to resolve itself in one sitting. It could begin with the true sentence: “I asked you to save him, and I am angry that he died.”

The sentence would not shock Jesus. He had already seen the hospital room, heard the prayers, and known the love beneath them. Renee’s honesty could not reveal information God had missed. It could reveal the part of her that had been hiding from relationship.

An older woman named Denise came into the hallway looking for her coat. She noticed Renee on the bench and asked whether she wanted company. Renee nearly said she only needed a minute. Then she shook her head and moved her bag so Denise could sit.

For a while, neither spoke. The sermon began inside the sanctuary, and the speaker’s voice reached them faintly through the wall. Denise did not ask why Renee had left. She waited until Renee said the song had become too hard.

Denise nodded. Her husband had died four years earlier. She said there were still songs she could not sing on certain days. She did not offer an explanation for Renee’s brother. She did not say her own loss had taught her why God allowed death. She simply made room for the fact that worship could contain silence.

That phrase stayed with Renee. She had treated silence during the song as refusal to worship. Denise suggested that staying honest before God might itself be worship. Renee had remained in the building. She had not stopped longing for God. She had stopped saying words she could not say truthfully that morning.

There are times when singing words before we feel them can help faith lead emotion. A person may borrow the church’s song when private strength is gone. There are also times when forcing the words becomes another way to hide. Discernment may mean singing softly, remaining silent, leaving the room, or asking someone to sit beside us.

The action itself does not prove faith or unbelief. The question is whether it helps the person remain honest and connected to Jesus. Renee had not left to punish anyone. She had left because her body was overwhelmed. The hallway became the place where a truer conversation could begin.

Denise asked what Renee missed most about her brother. The answer came quickly: his habit of calling during his drive home. He rarely had important news. He called to complain about traffic, tell a bad joke, or ask what their mother wanted for her birthday. Renee had not realized how much of their relationship lived inside those ordinary calls until they stopped.

Grief is often carried through details that sound too small for public remembrance. People speak about a loved one’s character while the grieving person misses the sound of a cupboard closing, the name appearing on a phone, or the way someone mispronounced a word. The future feels frightening because it contains thousands of ordinary moments from which that person will remain absent.

Jesus’ tears dignify those details. The Word who made the world did not treat human attachment as weakness. He loved particular people. He knew names, homes, voices, and tables. Resurrection does not flatten those relationships into a general idea of eternal life. It promises life with God in a renewed creation where death no longer separates.

Renee told Denise about the final night. She had not planned to. Once the story began, the sentences came slowly. She described the machines, her mother’s hand, and the prayer she repeated because she could not think of another one. She admitted that part of her still believed she might have prayed the wrong words.

Denise did not tell her there was a better prayer. She said love had been present in the room, and God had not been waiting for perfect phrasing. That response loosened something Renee had carried for a year. She had treated prayer as one more place where failure might explain the outcome.

This fear is common after loss. People review decisions, conversations, medical choices, and prayers. Some review can reveal a real need for accountability or help us learn. Much of it is the mind searching for control after control has already been lost. If one different sentence could have changed everything, then the world remains safer than it feels.

Sometimes there was nothing a person could have done. Sometimes several imperfect decisions were made under unbearable pressure. Grace meets both realities. It can lead us to repair what remains repairable and release what no longer belongs to our hands.

Renee could not return to the hospital room and pray differently. She could bring the guilt into the presence of Jesus now. She could ask whether it rested on an actual wrong or on the unbearable fact that love had not been able to prevent death.

The question did not produce an immediate answer, but it changed the direction of her prayer. Instead of repeating, “I should have done more,” she began saying, “I wish I could have saved him.” The second sentence exposed grief beneath the accusation.

We often speak harshly to ourselves because harshness feels more active than helplessness. Blame gives the mind something to prosecute. Grief asks us to stand before a loss we cannot reverse. Jesus does not demand that we choose blame in order to prove the loss mattered.

When the service ended, people entered the hallway in small groups. Renee considered leaving before anyone asked questions. Denise offered to walk with her to the parking lot. Outside, the air was cold enough to make both of them pull their coats tighter.

Before they separated, Denise asked whether Renee wanted her phone number. The offer did not carry pressure. Renee saved it and promised nothing. Two weeks later, on the anniversary of her brother’s funeral, she sent a short message asking whether Denise had time for coffee.

Healing often enters through relationships that do not try to replace the person who died. Denise could not fill her brother’s place, and she did not attempt to. She became one person with whom Renee did not have to shorten grief.

Renee also began meeting with a grief counselor. The decision was not a sign that prayer had failed. It was one way she allowed grief to be heard by someone trained to recognize its movement. They spoke about sleep, anger, guilt, memory, and the fear that new loss was always near.

Some days the sessions felt useful. Other days Renee left feeling tired and unchanged. Slow work can be difficult for people accustomed to dramatic answers. Jesus did not become absent because healing happened through repeated conversation rather than a single moment.

Months later, the same worship song appeared again. Renee recognized the opening notes before the words reached the screen. Her body tightened. She considered leaving and knew she was free to do so.

She stayed, but she did not sing every line. When the words felt too certain for where she was, she remained quiet. When the song spoke about God’s presence, she whispered the words. Her worship was uneven, and it was honest.

The change was not that she had solved her brother’s death. She still wanted him alive. She still became angry when people reduced the loss to a lesson. The change was that anger no longer had to be hidden from Jesus. It could exist inside a relationship that also contained love, doubt, memory, and hope.

At the end of the song, Renee prayed without correcting herself. She said she missed her brother, did not understand why he had died, and wanted to trust the promise of resurrection. The prayer held all three truths without forcing one to silence the others.

Jesus had met Martha’s protest, Mary’s tears, and a tomb filled with death. He had not asked them to become less human before he came near. Renee began to believe he was not asking that of her either. The song ended, and she remained standing, not because grief had become easy, but because she no longer believed honesty would make Jesus leave.

Chapter 3: The Nameplate in the Grocery Bag

Teresa carried the nameplate out of the school in a paper grocery bag. It had been attached to her classroom door for twenty-seven years, though the room number had changed twice. The black letters were scratched near the edges, and a piece of old tape remained on the back. Two teachers hugged her in the hallway. The principal told her retirement was going to be wonderful. Teresa smiled, thanked everyone, and walked toward her car while the bag swung against her leg.

The parking lot was almost empty. Summer had begun for the students three days earlier, and the staff had finished their final meetings. Teresa placed the bag on the passenger seat beside a box of books. She had imagined this afternoon many times. In those earlier versions, she felt proud, relieved, and ready. Instead, she sat behind the steering wheel and wondered who she would be on Monday morning.

People had been asking about her plans for months. Teresa said she would travel, work in the garden, and finally organize the photographs in the hall closet. Those answers were true, but they did not contain the fear. The school had given her days a shape, a place to stand, and people who needed her. Retirement was described as freedom. To Teresa, it felt like becoming unnecessary.

Fear of the future is not always fear that something terrible will happen. Sometimes it is fear that nothing will happen and that our absence will not matter. A person leaves a career, finishes raising children, steps away from leadership, recovers from a role that consumed them, or watches a community continue without them. The calendar opens, and the open space feels less like rest than erasure.

Teresa had built a life around being useful. She arrived early, stayed late, kept extra snacks in a cabinet, and remembered which students needed a quiet greeting before class. Her care was real. So was the hidden agreement beneath it: as long as someone needed her, she knew where she belonged.

The agreement had worked for years. It also made rest difficult. A free afternoon left her uneasy. Help from another teacher felt like criticism. When her doctor suggested retiring after a season of exhaustion and recurring migraines, Teresa heard more than concern for her health. She heard a question about whether she still had value when she was no longer carrying the room.

Christians often speak about purpose in ways that strengthen this fear. We say everyone has work to do for God, gifts to use, and people to serve. These are important truths. Yet when purpose is heard only as output, a person may begin to believe God loves their usefulness more than their presence.

Jesus did call people into service. He sent disciples, gave responsibilities, and spoke about faithful stewardship. He also invited people to remain with him. In John 15, he described himself as the vine and his followers as branches. The branch bears fruit by remaining connected. Fruit matters, but connection comes first.

A branch does not produce life by straining harder. It receives life through the vine. The image challenges the belief that spiritual worth is manufactured through constant activity. If the relationship with Jesus is only a way to become more productive, we have reversed the picture. He is not fuel for our usefulness. He is the life in which we are held.

Teresa had spent years asking Jesus to help her serve. She rarely asked him to help her receive love when she had nothing to offer. Her prayers were full of students, lessons, meetings, and needs. There was generosity in those prayers. There was also a way of staying hidden. If every conversation focused on someone else, Teresa did not have to ask whether Jesus wanted her company when she was tired and empty-handed.

The final night before retirement, she had opened her Bible to the story of Martha and Mary. Teresa had always sympathized with Martha. Someone needed to prepare the meal. Guests required care. The work did not disappear because Mary sat near Jesus.

Jesus did not shame service itself. He addressed the way Martha had become worried, distracted, and resentful within it. Her work had pulled her away from the person she was serving. Mary received the moment in front of her, while Martha measured Mary against the burden she believed she had to carry alone.

Teresa recognized herself in that resentment. She had occasionally judged younger teachers who left at the end of the contracted day. She told herself they lacked commitment. Some may have needed to give more, but Teresa’s judgment also protected her own pattern. If constant sacrifice was the definition of love, then exhaustion proved she mattered.

The words of Jesus to Martha suggested that love could look like attention rather than endless preparation. One thing was needed. The person in front of Martha mattered more than the perfect performance around him.

Teresa closed the Bible that night feeling both comforted and exposed. Retirement might not be the end of purpose. It might reveal whether she could remain near Jesus without turning nearness into another assignment.

On her last afternoon, she drove home with the classroom nameplate in the grocery bag. She carried the box of books inside first, then returned for the bag. For nearly an hour, it sat on the kitchen table because she did not know where to put it. Displaying it felt like refusing to move forward. Hiding it felt like admitting those years were over.

Grief often gathers around objects because objects give change a shape. A uniform, office key, empty lunchbox, wedding ring, badge, or nameplate carries more than its practical use. It represents a version of the person who knew how the day worked. Putting it away can feel like putting that person away too.

Teresa did not need to rush the decision. She left the bag on the table and made soup. The house seemed unusually quiet even though it was no quieter than the day before. The difference was that tomorrow would not require an alarm.

She had been asking Jesus to show her the next purpose. That evening, she admitted what the prayer was hiding. “I am afraid you will have less reason to want me when I am not helping anyone.” The sentence sounded childish to her, but it was true.

The Gospels answered that fear through the way Jesus related to people. He did not treat them only as workers. He ate with them, walked with them, asked them questions, and welcomed their presence. In John 15, he called his disciples friends. Their obedience mattered, but relationship was not reduced to labor.

Friendship with Jesus is unlike friendship between equals, because he remains Lord. Still, he chose that relational word. He wanted the disciples to understand that they were not merely tools carrying out commands they did not understand. He shared what he had received from the Father and drew them into love.

This means Teresa’s life with Jesus did not end when her classroom work ended. The role had been a place where love took form. It was not the source of the love or the limit of the relationship.

The distinction can be hard to feel after a long season of responsibility. Roles create repeated evidence that we matter. A student asks for help. A client needs an answer. A child calls from another room. A team waits for a decision. When those signals stop, the silence can feel like proof that worth has stopped too.

Jesus does not measure worth by the number of requests arriving. The cross reveals a love given before we can repay it. Grace is not a salary for spiritual productivity. It is the life of God offered to people who cannot earn it.

Teresa knew these truths, but knowing them did not immediately make Monday easy. She woke at 5:42 without an alarm. For several minutes, she forgot she was retired. Then she saw the dark room and remembered there was nowhere she had to be.

She almost opened her school email out of habit, though her account access had ended. Instead, she made coffee and sat near the window. The quiet felt heavy. She tried to pray and found herself creating a plan for the week. Cleaning the garage, sorting books, arranging appointments, and volunteering could fill the open hours quickly.

Plans were not wrong. Structure can support health during a major transition. Teresa needed meals, movement, relationships, and reasons to leave the house. The danger was that she could rebuild the same identity in a new form before grieving the old one.

She set the notebook aside and allowed the morning to remain open for ten minutes. During that time, she noticed how tired she was. Exhaustion had become so familiar that she had stopped naming it. Her body did not feel free yet. It felt as if it had reached the end of a long effort and finally understood that it could stop.

Rest can uncover feelings activity kept hidden. A person expects relief and finds sadness, anger, fear, or numbness instead. This does not mean rest is harmful. It means silence has allowed something to be heard.

Teresa cried at the window without a clear reason. She was proud of the work, relieved to leave parts of it, hurt by changes in the school, grateful for former students, and afraid of the next years. No single sentence could summarize the transition. She let the feelings exist together without turning them into a problem to solve before breakfast.

Jesus invited weary people to come to him, but his rest was not an order to become cheerful. Rest begins with being received. The burdened person does not have to explain the burden perfectly before approaching. They come because they are burdened.

Teresa prayed, “I do not know how to be here without a job to do.” She waited, then added, “Please stay with me while I learn.” The prayer was smaller than the plans she usually brought to God. It was also more intimate.

Later that morning, a former coworker called to check on her. Teresa considered saying retirement felt wonderful. Instead, she said the quiet was harder than expected. Her coworker understood. She had watched her own father struggle after leaving a long career and suggested Teresa give herself time before committing to every request that came.

That advice mattered because useful people are often recruited quickly. Churches, families, and community groups know who will say yes. Teresa had already received two offers to volunteer. Both were worthwhile. Neither needed an immediate answer.

Saying yes too quickly could have relieved her fear of being unnecessary while preventing her from learning who she was beyond demand. Saying no forever could allow isolation to grow. Wisdom would require a slower response than fear preferred.

Teresa chose one small commitment. She agreed to read with children at the public library two mornings a month, beginning later in the summer. The schedule gave her a way to share what she loved without recreating a full classroom. She declined a larger administrative role that would have consumed several days each week.

The refusal made her feel guilty. She could imagine how much help the organization needed. Then she remembered that a need did not automatically become her assignment. Jesus had not retired from caring for people, but he had also not asked Teresa to continue proving love through exhaustion.

The deeper work of that season was learning to receive days before filling them. Some days contained lunch with a friend. Others contained a medical appointment, a walk, or a long afternoon sorting photographs. Several days felt uneventful. Teresa had to resist judging them as wasted.

The life of Jesus included hidden years the Gospels barely describe. Before public teaching, crowds, and miracles, he lived ordinary human time. Scripture does not treat those years as meaningless preparation that failed to count. The Son’s life was not valuable only when people could see the results.

That truth challenged Teresa’s instinct to narrate every quiet season as a delay before the real work returned. Perhaps ordinary time was not empty. Perhaps a meal, conversation, nap, book, prayer, or walk could belong fully to life with God without needing to produce something larger.

This does not romanticize retirement. Some people face financial strain, declining health, caregiving demands, or severe loneliness when work ends. Others do not choose the transition. They are laid off, injured, or pushed out. Encouragement that ignores those realities becomes shallow.

Teresa had a pension and stable housing, gifts she did not take for granted. Even with that security, identity had been shaken. For someone carrying greater practical pressure, faithful care may include financial guidance, benefits assistance, medical support, counseling, or help finding new work. Jesus’ presence does not remove the value of practical help.

The fear beneath many transitions is the same: if I cannot do what I once did, will I still be myself? Bodies change. Roles end. Children grow. Communities move on. A faith built only on usefulness cannot answer that fear because usefulness changes with circumstance.

Jesus gives identity through belonging. We are known by name, received by grace, and joined to him. The forms of service may change, but the relationship does not depend on one role remaining forever.

Months after retirement, Teresa returned to the school for a fall concert. A new teacher’s name was attached to her former classroom door. Seeing it hurt more than she expected. Students moved through the hallway without recognizing her. The school had continued.

She stood near the door long enough to feel the loss. Then a student she had taught years earlier approached with a child of her own. The former student hugged Teresa and introduced her as the teacher who had helped her learn to read.

The moment was meaningful, but Teresa was careful with it. It did not prove her worth by providing a grateful former student at the right time. Her worth had not been in danger before the woman appeared. The encounter allowed her to receive gratitude without making gratitude the foundation beneath her life.

This is a subtle freedom. We can enjoy evidence that our work mattered without requiring constant evidence that we matter. We can remember a role with pride without needing to remain inside it. We can serve again without turning service into an argument for our right to be loved.

After the concert, Teresa walked past the classroom once more. She did not need the old nameplate returned to the door. It belonged to a completed season. Completion was not erasure.

At home, she finally removed the nameplate from the grocery bag. She cleaned the adhesive from the back and placed it in a drawer with class photographs and letters from students. The drawer was not a hiding place. It was a place for something worth keeping that no longer needed to direct the day.

The next morning, Teresa woke after sunrise. She made coffee, opened the curtains, and sat without reaching immediately for a task. There were still open questions about how she would spend the coming years. Some days would feel lonely. Some opportunities would fit, and others would not.

She did not ask Jesus to make her useful before coming near. She prayed, “I am here.” The words were enough because relationship did not begin with an assignment. The quiet room no longer felt like proof that she had disappeared. It became a place where the person beneath the nameplate could finally learn that Jesus had wanted her all along.

Your friend,

Douglas Vandergraph

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Campbell McHenry, a high school junior from Mississippi, had a word for what happens to a school with no AI policy. Unhinged. “Everyone's gonna stop learning and start relying on AI,” he told NPR during a weekend in Boston in July. “Instead of using it as a tool, they're gonna use it as a brain.”

He was sitting in a 5,500 square foot replica of the United States Senate chamber, on the campus of the University of Massachusetts Boston, built by the Edward M. Kennedy Institute for the United States Senate. It is the only full-scale copy of the chamber in the world. The desks are accurate. The rostrum is accurate. The lighting is accurate. What was not accurate, over the weekend of 17 to 19 July 2026, was the age of the people in the seats, and the fact that they were getting something done.

Ninety-eight high school students, mostly juniors and seniors, one or two from each state, spent thirty-eight hours arriving by 42 inbound flights, by Amtrak, by bus and by car, in order to draft and pass a piece of legislation about artificial intelligence in K-12 schools. On the Sunday morning they voted. The STUDENTS FIRST Act passed 82 to 16.

It is not a law. The students are not senators. The whole thing was a simulation, an expanded version of the Kennedy Institute's Senate Immersion Module, the role-play programme that has run more than 160,000 students from 21 states through the replica chamber, and which in autumn 2024 added technology reform to its slate of debate topics. This particular weekend was branded America's Youth AI Festival and organised with Day of AI, the nonprofit spun out of MIT's RAISE initiative, and AASA, The School Superintendents Association.

And yet the text those teenagers produced is now going somewhere real. AASA has said it will send the bill to its membership: more than 10,000 school system leaders, a great many of whom are, at this moment, writing AI policies of their own with almost nothing to copy from. Which raises a question that ought to be more uncomfortable than it has been. Why is the most specific, most internally coherent piece of K-12 AI legislation in circulation this summer a document written by children?

What Ninety-Eight Teenagers Actually Wrote Down

The bill is real enough to read, and reading it is more instructive than reading the coverage of it. AASA has published the full nine-page text as S.2026, styled after the 119th Congress. The acronym is tortured in the authentic congressional manner: Safe Technology Use, Data Privacy, and Ethical Norms for Teaching, Fostering Integrity and Responsible Systems in Teaching.

It runs to five sections, addressed in turn to everyone, to students, to parents and guardians, to teachers and to administrators. Each section after the first was worked up by a subcommittee with its own strained acronym, then amended and adopted by the full body. The student section is the longest, at fifteen provisions.

What is striking, on the page, is how much of the bill points away from students. Section one opens not with a rule about teenagers but with a rule about vendors: any organisation selling generative AI services to public schools “must address all known biases within their generative AI, and must inform their clients of the biases that their products represent,” and the school must then pass that information to parents. Section four tells teachers that “just as students are expected to be transparent in their AI usage, teachers should be held to the same standard.” Section five forbids administrators from using AI to hire staff, forbids them from entering student or teacher personal information into AI tools, and requires them to “consult with students, staff, and families before drafting AI rules.”

There is a running preoccupation with human contact. Educators, section one says, should omit AI “in situations where human connection is irreplaceable in the learning environment.” Administrators should require that school counsellors do not use AI tools, “particularly in mental health contexts.” Nothing in the act, it adds, shall penalise a teacher for declining to use AI at all.

This is not the document you would predict if you assumed teenagers writing their own AI rules would write themselves a permission slip. It reads instead like something drafted by people who have concluded that the technology's main risk to them is not that they will be caught using it, but that the institution around them will be hollowed out by it.

A Theory of Assessment Sharper Than Most Districts Have

The most consequential thing in the bill is also the easiest to skim past. Provision nine of the student section: “AI use is strictly prohibited on all graded assessments.” Then, immediately: “AI use is permitted for studying.”

That is a theory of assessment, and a defensible one. It says AI is a legitimate part of learning and an illegitimate part of measurement. Use it to get better; do not use it at the moment we are checking how good you got. The students arrived at this in a weekend. Australian higher education took rather longer to arrive somewhere similar. The two-lane approach set out by Adam Bridgeman and Danny Liu at the University of Sydney in July 2024, and since widely discussed across the sector, splits assessment into a secure lane, conducted under controlled conditions to verify learning, and an open lane in which AI use is scaffolded and taught. Australia's tertiary regulator followed in September 2025 with guidance on enacting assessment reform, built on the premise that detection cannot guarantee integrity and that structural redesign is the only durable answer.

Most American district policies have not made this distinction cleanly. They tend to produce a general posture, permissive or restrictive, and leave the assessment question to individual teachers. The student bill instead builds a scaffold: teachers must publish a written AI policy each semester, “explicitly stating when AI is permitted, restricted, or banned for specific assignments,” with “category based rules (essay, worksheet, test),” and those rules must be consistent across sections of the same course. The students, in other words, identified the thing that drives them mad, which is not that AI rules exist but that they differ from classroom to classroom and are frequently unwritten, and legislated against it.

They also drew a line most adults have avoided. Provision four: students “should never use AI for the act of writing,” though editing, brainstorming and studying with it are permitted after eighth grade, and only after non-AI editing has been “taught and assessed thoroughly.” Whether that is the right line is arguable. That it is a line, stated in one sentence, with an age attached and a prerequisite skill named, puts it ahead of a great deal of adult guidance.

The Clause Nobody Asked Them For

Then there is the carbon.

Provision two of the student section requires states to mandate AI literacy instruction from the moment students start using devices in the classroom, and specifies the syllabus: misinformation, plagiarism, bias in AI systems, privacy concerns, appropriate academic use, how AI functions, and “environmental impacts.”

Nothing in the American federal framework centres that last item, largely because the American federal framework barely exists. Executive Order 14277, signed on 23 April 2025 and titled Advancing Artificial Intelligence Education for American Youth, established a White House Task Force on AI Education, directed the Education Secretary to issue guidance on how existing grant funds might be spent, told the National Science Foundation to prioritise research, and launched a Presidential AI Challenge. Its subject matter is capability and workforce readiness. It does not address academic integrity. It does not address assessment. It does not mention the energy and water cost of the systems it wants children to become proficient with.

The students put it in the curriculum unprompted, alongside plagiarism, as a thing you are supposed to know about the tool before you are handed it. It is a small provision and it tells you something about the frame these teenagers are working in. They are not treating AI as a neutral productivity layer that has arrived to help them. They are treating it as an industrial product with costs, made by companies with interests, and they want the cost sheet taught in class.

The literacy mandate itself was the weekend's most contested item, and the debate was not sentimental. It was about money. Om Lala of California objected that requiring schools to teach AI literacy would be a heavy lift because “teachers already are pretty under-resourced.” Tristan Tjetjep of Tennessee worried about how “underprivileged schools” would pay for it. The students had walked directly into the structural funding inequity of American public education, and they responded the way legislatures respond, by writing a funding requirement into the bill: proportional federal funding with a baseline minimum, for enterprise AI, mandatory staff training and a range of student literacy options. They invented an unfunded mandate and then, within the same weekend, tried to fund it.

Viva Voce and the Burden of Proof

The most legally fraught thing in the bill sits in section four, provision six, under a Latin heading. “VIVA VOCE (Oral Defense): Teachers reserve the right to require an oral defense of any paper or project where AI use is suspected or reported, to ensure the student possesses the knowledge displayed in the work.”

Take the pragmatic case first, because it is strong. AI detectors do not work well enough to hang a disciplinary finding on. The most cited evidence is a 2023 study in the journal Patterns by Weixin Liang and colleagues at Stanford, which ran seven widely used GPT detectors over essays written by non-native English speakers and found that more than half of the TOEFL essays were misclassified as AI-generated, while the same detectors were near-perfect on writing by US eighth graders. The mechanism is banal and damning: detectors flag low linguistic variability, and non-native writers, along with anyone writing plainly, produce exactly that.

The students knew this. Their bill says a suspected student is entitled to review by two school officials as well as detection software, and that teachers “must personally investigate the issue before reporting the student to admin.” They wrote in a right to appeal any finding of wrongful AI use, and a right of appeal against any disciplinary action. That is more due process than a lot of real districts currently offer, and it was written by people who expect to be on the receiving end of it. Microsoft's 2025 education survey found the single largest concern among American higher education students was not misinformation or job loss but “potential to be accused of plagiarism or cheating,” named by 32 per cent.

But the viva provision still has a problem, and it is the direction the burden runs. An oral defence triggered by suspicion asks a student to prove authorship rather than asking the school to prove misconduct. Perform well and you are cleared; perform badly and the suspicion is confirmed. The evidence on oral assessment is not reassuring here. A systematic review of the structured viva in health professions education found anxiety to be the most prominent reported limitation, along with weak standardisation and equity problems for students speaking English as an additional language. Layer that on a student with an anxiety disorder, a speech difference, a language barrier, or an individualised education programme, and a mechanism designed to protect the wrongly accused becomes a second way to fail them.

To their credit, the students left an escape hatch of sorts: their own bill requires schools to allow AI-based learning supports in IEP and 504 accommodation plans, and advises students to preserve document history on major assignments as a defence against false positives. That last piece of advice is the most telling line in the entire document. It is a generation coaching itself on how to prove it did its own homework.

What the Adults Produced Instead

Set the student bill beside the adult record and the asymmetry is the story.

There is no national framework for AI in American schools. The April 2025 executive order imposes no obligation on any district. At state level, the picture is guidance-heavy and law-light: by late October 2025, 34 states plus Puerto Rico had issued some form of official K-12 AI guidance, according to the tracker maintained by AI for Education. Guidance is not requirement. An analysis published by ExcelinEd in May 2026 counted just seven states with enacted laws, another twenty or so with bills in progress, and around ten with nothing beyond guidance or a task force. Its summary of the gap was that districts are being left to vet tools without any state-provided evaluation framework.

Congress, meanwhile, spent 2025 trying to make the state patchwork illegal. A ten-year moratorium on state AI regulation was inserted into the budget reconciliation bill, and on 1 July 2025 the Senate voted 99 to 1 to strip it out. The single vote in favour of preemption belonged to Thom Tillis. Federal AI policy for the year was, in substance, a near-unanimous decision not to have one, and to let the states carry on.

So when 10,000 superintendents open an email containing a bill written by teenagers, and from August sit through webinars and school visits built around it, they will be doing so because nothing else has arrived. Jeffrey Riley, who runs Day of AI and was previously Massachusetts commissioner of elementary and secondary education, put the logic plainly to NPR: “The adults themselves haven't been able to come to consensus on this, right? And so now it falls to the kids. Let them lead the way.”

That is a generous reading. A less generous one is that adult institutions have discovered that student voice is cheap, fast and reputationally safe in a way that binding policy is not. Nobody gets sued over a simulation.

The Ghost of Social Media in the Chamber

The students had a theory about why the adults were slow, and they said it out loud all weekend. “We missed the mark with social media and phones,” said Hunter Wurzel, a senior representing Ohio. “That's been a huge talking point already, is how we failed to implement those things into education and teach the youth how to use them.”

It is worth taking that claim apart rather than nodding at it, because the record is more specific than the slogan.

The Surgeon General issued a formal advisory on social media and youth mental health in May 2023, noting that up to 95 per cent of teenagers aged 13 to 17 used a social platform and more than a third said they used one “almost constantly.” In June 2024 the Surgeon General went further and called for a tobacco-style warning label. That step requires an act of Congress. Congress did not act.

The Kids Online Safety Act passed the Senate 91 to 3 on 30 July 2024, then died without a House vote. Reintroduced in the 119th Congress, it was eventually folded into a House package, the KIDS Act, which passed 267 to 117 on 29 June 2026, with KOSA's central duty of care stripped out. Senate co-author Richard Blumenthal promptly declared the House version dead in his chamber. Two years and one week after a 91 to 3 Senate vote, there is still no statute.

Phone bans tell a similar story at a different pace. As of the end of April 2025, only eleven states had statewide restrictions of any kind, four of them full bell-to-bell bans, with Florida first in 2023. Fourteen months later the position had transformed: by June 2026, 22 states and Washington D.C. had adopted full bell-to-bell bans, and a further 19 had enacted more flexible legislation leaving districts to set their own policies, putting roughly 41 states under some form of restriction. Common Sense Media's own framing of the arms race is the sharpest version: it notes that Pew found roughly 73 per cent of online American teenagers were using social networking sites by 2009, about three years after Facebook opened to the public. The policy response to a technology that saturated adolescence by 2009 became widespread state law around 2025.

This is the founding political fact for the cohort in that chamber. Every one of those 98 students was born into a live, uncontrolled experiment, watched adults spend fifteen years arguing about whether it was harmful, and reached the age of legislative role-play just in time to be handed the next one. “We missed the mark” is not adolescent grandstanding. It is a reasonably precise summary of the legislative record, delivered by the test subjects.

The Evidence Behind the Fear They Named

McHenry's line about using AI as a brain rather than a tool is a folk statement of a hypothesis researchers are actively testing, with results that are suggestive rather than settled.

The most publicised is the MIT Media Lab study led by Nataliya Kosmyna, posted to arXiv in June 2025 under the title “Your Brain on ChatGPT,” which had 54 participants write SAT-style essays across three sessions while wearing 32-electrode EEG headsets, with 18 returning for a fourth crossover session. Brain connectivity scaled down with the amount of external help: unaided writers showed the strongest networks, search engine users intermediate, language model users the weakest. Participants who had used the model struggled to quote their own essays back and reported weaker ownership of them. The authors called the effect cognitive debt.

It is a preprint with a small sample and a narrow task, and it has been over-read constantly since publication. It is not proof that AI makes teenagers stupid. What it does establish is that the mechanism the students are worried about is at least physically detectable.

The correlational picture points the same way without proving causation. Michael Gerlich's 2025 study in Societies, surveying 666 participants, found a significant negative association between frequent AI use and critical thinking scores, mediated by cognitive offloading, with the strongest dependence among 17 to 25 year olds. Common Sense Media's 2026 census of 1,204 American children aged 9 to 17, fielded with SSRS on a probability panel, found that 20 per cent of AI users, and 42 per cent of daily users, said going a month without AI would be very or somewhat hard. It also found that children who struggle academically lean hardest on it: 56 per cent of those who have a hard time staying focused on assignments use AI for schoolwork at least weekly, against 45 per cent of those who do not.

That last finding is the uncomfortable one, because it cuts against the student bill's own logic. A restriction-first regime falls heaviest on the students already struggling, who are using the tool most, and who are least likely to have the document history, the articulacy under pressure, or the parental advocacy to survive an oral defence.

Ninety-Eight Is Not a Sample

There is a version of this article that treats the Students First Act as the authentic voice of American youth. That version would be wrong, and the numbers say so.

These students were, in NPR's phrasing, “handpicked by their school leaders.” They are the young people a superintendent thinks of when asked to nominate someone for a civics simulation in Boston: engaged, articulate, available in July, backed by families who can get them to an airport. Selecting for civic enthusiasm selects for institutionalism. A cohort assembled that way is likely to believe rules can work, because believing that is roughly the entry requirement.

Set them beside the general population and the gap opens. The Common Sense census found 86 per cent of 9 to 17 year olds use AI in some form, rising to 92 per cent of 16 and 17 year olds, with 24 per cent using it daily. Among users, 85 per cent use it for schoolwork, 48 per cent at least weekly and 21 per cent every day. Asked in an open-ended question what people their age know about AI that adults do not, the single largest theme, at 21 per cent, concerned schoolwork, including how to cheat with it and, in the researchers' summary, “how kids can get away with using AI for schoolwork even when they are not supposed to.” One respondent's verbatim answer: “You can exploit AI to do all your assignments from school, and use multiple AIs to make it look handmade.”

That is the constituency the Students First Act would govern, and it is not the constituency that wrote it.

There is also the performance problem. A room of teenagers, in a Senate chamber, watched by superintendents, a former state education commissioner and a national broadcaster, is a room with a strong incentive to produce responsibility. The bill's restrictionism may be partly sincere and partly a read of the audience. Both can be true. Adult legislators are not usually granted the assumption that their public positions are unaffected by who is watching, and the students should not be either.

What complicates the cynical reading is the texture of the dissent. Jadelynn Petitjean of Alabama called the bill an “unstable foundation” and voted no. Ethan Liu of West Virginia catalogued the contradictions, including amendments that restricted student access while handing teachers broad discretion, and told the chamber he had “a whole different speech planned out against this bill, actually. It was really good.” He changed his vote only after organisers let the students patch some of the inconsistencies. Zora Nobel of Maine voted for it while describing it on the record as containing “repetitive provisions, prescriptive language, and at times, contradictions.” That is not a room performing consensus. That is a room bargaining.

Why Rules You Wrote Yourself Might Actually Hold

The strongest argument for the exercise has nothing to do with the quality of the text.

Tom Tyler's work, running from Why People Obey the Law onward, is the foundation of procedural justice theory, and its central finding is that compliance tracks perceived legitimacy far more reliably than it tracks fear of punishment. People follow rules they consider fairly made by authorities they consider entitled to make them. Tyler's corollary is the one that should worry school administrators: regulating behaviour primarily through threat can actively erode the internal commitment that produces voluntary compliance. Research on adolescents specifically finds that transparency of rationale and genuine consideration of young people's views have consistent effects on trust in authority, in schools and in government alike.

Applied here, the argument is not that teenagers wrote better AI rules than superintendents would have. It is that a rule a student helped write is a rule a student is more likely to keep, and that AI compliance is almost entirely a voluntary-compliance problem, because the enforcement technology does not work.

The research literature has begun to catch up. A peer-reviewed paper by Kaoru Seki, Manisha Vijay and Yasmine Kotturi, titled “Participatory, not Punitive,” presented at the CHI conference on human factors in computing systems in Barcelona in April 2026, ran a three-part workshop series in a graduate design course at a minority-serving American university, in which two student leaders facilitated discussion with no faculty in the room. The participants co-authored ten policy recommendations. The authors argue that engaging students in AI governance carries value beyond the resulting policies, and describe their model as calling students in rather than calling them out.

It is a small study, eight participants, at university rather than K-12, and should not be asked to carry more than it can. But one of its specific findings maps onto the Boston bill with uncanny precision. The student-led process surfaced a concern absent from top-down governance: the double standard of requiring students to disclose or abstain from AI while faculty face no equivalent expectation. Section four, provision four of the Students First Act, written by teenagers who had not read that paper, says teachers must be held to the same transparency standard as students. Two independent participatory processes, different countries of the academy, different age groups, produced the same demand. That is the sort of convergence that suggests the process is surfacing something real rather than flattering its participants.

When the Text Meets a School Board

None of this survives contact with a school board meeting unaltered, and it is worth being specific about where it breaks.

Start with enforceability. “AI use is strictly prohibited on all graded assessments” is a rule about a device, not a rule about a mind, and the bill's own enforcement mechanism, mandating “one standardized AI detector” per district plus lockdown browsers, leans on precisely the technology the students elsewhere acknowledge is unreliable. There is an unresolved contradiction here: the bill requires teachers to use a detector on written graded assessments while simultaneously requiring that no student be judged on a detector alone. Both things can be operationalised, but only by a district with the staffing to run a two-official review on every flag. That district exists. So does the one with a single overstretched assistant principal.

Then the funding. The bill's answer to inequity is proportional federal funding with a baseline minimum, which is a sentence a student senate can write and a school board cannot. Absent that money, an AI literacy mandate starting at the moment of device issue becomes another compliance burden distributed unequally, heaviest on the districts with the least capacity, which is the exact pattern the students were trying to prevent.

Then the parents. Section three is the weakest part of the bill, and the students knew it. “We cannot legislate parenthood,” Isabella Stringer of New Hampshire told the chamber, and the section duly softens into advice. Except in one place, provision seven, where a parent using AI on a child's graded work without teacher permission exposes the child to suspension or expulsion. That will not survive a single angry school board meeting, and it should not.

The record-keeping is imperfect too, in a way that is almost endearing. The PDF AASA published is filed under a name declaring the bill passed 84 to 14. The page hosting it, NPR's account and AASA's own national announcement in August all say 82 to 16. Somewhere between the chamber and the content management system, four votes moved. Real legislatures have the same problem and solve it with a clerk.

The Line They Drew

The temptation is to end warmly. Ninety-eight teenagers did in a weekend what Congress has not done in three years, and they did it with more precision about assessment, more attention to due process and more interest in the environmental cost of the technology than the sitting federal framework contains.

The temptation in the other direction is equally available. It was a simulation, in a replica, with a non-binding output, at an event underwritten in part by an AI literacy nonprofit, involving students selected for their enthusiasm, producing a document with acknowledged internal contradictions that will be put in front of superintendents who are under no obligation to adopt a word of it.

Laura Lundy, writing in the journal Childhood in 2018, made the case that the children's rights field has been too quick with the word tokenism. Since Roger Hart placed tokenism on the bottom rungs of his 1992 ladder of children's participation, alongside manipulation and decoration, the field has often concluded that imperfect participation is worse than none. Lundy's argument, drawn from what participating children actually report, is that this reasoning is used to justify doing nothing, and that young people who have taken part in flawed processes frequently do not experience them as empty.

The useful question is not whether the Boston weekend was real politics. It is what the students chose when handed the pen, and that answer is not ambiguous. Offered an opportunity to write themselves permission, a cohort that uses this technology more than any group in history wrote itself restrictions, then wrote in appeal rights, then turned round and imposed transparency obligations on the vendors, the teachers and the administrators too. They banned AI on the tests and allowed it in the studying. They asked to be taught what the machines cost the planet. They asked, in the last provision of the bill's last section, to be consulted before adults write rules about them.

Bena Mejia Romero of Connecticut put it to the chamber before the final vote: “This bill is about who gets a seat at the table. Today, students have that seat.” It was, for that weekend, a seat in a room where the desks were accurate and the votes were not counted by anyone who had to act on them.

On 3 August 2026 the organisers announced what happens next, and it is more than an email. AASA will put the Act in front of its full membership, and Day of AI, the Kennedy Institute and MIT's RAISE initiative will follow it into schools with webinars, workshops, public discussions and in-person visits. Sarah Yezzi, the Kennedy Institute's chief educator officer, summarised the students' position in that announcement: “Students are not asking schools to ignore AI, nor are they asking schools to adopt AI without limits. They want clear, fair rules that protect privacy, preserve the ability to think, and ensure this transformative technology supports and enhances human relationships.”

A webinar is not a statute and a school visit is not a school board vote. Nothing in the programme obliges a single district to adopt a single provision, and the bill remains what it was on the Sunday morning it passed: a text with no force behind it but its own reasoning. What the announcement does dispose of is the easy dismissal, which was that the thing would land in ten thousand inboxes and stay there. It is going to be argued about in rooms where the votes are counted by people who have to act on them. The question is no longer whether anyone reads it. It is whether any of it ever becomes binding on anyone.

---

Sources and References

1. Cory Turner, “Adults have struggled to set rules for AI in school. These teens figured it out,” NPR, 30 July 2026. https://www.npr.org/2026/07/30/nx-s1-5853571/students-set-ai-policy
2. AASA, The School Superintendents Association, “The Students First Act: A Student-Led AI Policy,” 30 July 2026. https://www.aasa.org/resources/resource/students-first-act
3. 2026 Student Senate, “S.2026, The STUDENTS FIRST Act,” full bill text published by AASA, 19 July 2026. https://www.aasa.org/docs/default-source/resources/reports/17_s-2026-the-students-first-act-final-bill-passed-84-14-july-19-2026.pdf
4. AASA, The School Superintendents Association, “Students from All 50 States Produce National Framework for AI in America's Schools,” 3 August 2026. https://www.aasa.org/news-media/news/2026/08/03/students-produce-national-framework-for-ai-in-america's-schools
5. Edward M. Kennedy Institute for the United States Senate, “Edward M. Kennedy Institute introduces a new AI policy program to support civic and digital literacy,” 2024. https://emkinstitute.org/about-the-institute/edward-m-kennedy-institute-introduces-a-new-ai-policy-program-to-support-civic-and-digital-literacy/
6. Kaoru Seki, Manisha Vijay and Yasmine Kotturi, “Participatory, not Punitive: Student-Driven AI Policy Recommendations in a Design Classroom,” Proceedings of the 2026 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems (CHI '26), Barcelona, 13-17 April 2026, DOI 10.1145/3772318.3790691; preprint arXiv:2604.10851. https://doi.org/10.1145/3772318.3790691
7. Harvard Kennedy School, “Many states are banning cellphones in schools. Is it working?,” featuring Paul Peterson, 9 June 2026. https://www.hks.harvard.edu/faculty-research/policy-topics/education-training-labor/many-states-are-banning-cellphones-schools
8. Microsoft Education, “2025 AI in Education Report: Extended Survey Data,” August 2025. https://cdn-dynmedia-1.microsoft.com/is/content/microsoftcorp/microsoft/bade/documents/products-and-services/en-us/education/Survey-Data-2025-Microsoft-AI-in-Education-Report.pdf
9. Eleanor O'Neil, Kristen Soltis Anderson, Baxter White, Laura Zimmermann, Supreet Mann and Michael B. Robb, “The Common Sense Media Census: AI Use by Tweens and Teens, 2026,” Common Sense Media, 2026. https://www.commonsensemedia.org/sites/default/files/research/report/2026-ai-use-by-tweens-and-teens-1.pdf
10. Holland & Knight, “Executive Order: Advancing Artificial Intelligence Education for American Youth,” analysis of Executive Order 14277 of 23 April 2025, April 2025. https://www.hklaw.com/en/insights/publications/2025/04/executive-order-advancing-ai-education-for-american-youth
11. The White House, “AI Education,” ai.gov initiatives page, accessed 2 August 2026. https://www.ai.gov/initiatives/education
12. Nataliya Kosmyna, Eugene Hauptmann, Ye Tong Yuan, Jessica Situ, Xian-Hao Liao, Ashly Vivian Beresnitzky, Iris Braunstein and Pattie Maes, “Your Brain on ChatGPT: Accumulation of Cognitive Debt when Using an AI Assistant for Essay Writing Task,” arXiv:2506.08872, 10 June 2025. https://arxiv.org/abs/2506.08872
13. Weixin Liang, Mert Yuksekgonul, Yining Mao, Eric Wu and James Zou, “GPT detectors are biased against non-native English writers,” Patterns, 10 July 2023. https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/37521038/
14. Michael Gerlich, “AI Tools in Society: Impacts on Cognitive Offloading and the Future of Critical Thinking,” Societies, 3 January 2025. https://www.mdpi.com/2075-4698/15/1/6
15. Abdelhamid Ibrahim Hassan Abuzied and Wisal Omer Mohamed Nabag, “Structured viva validity, reliability, and acceptability as an assessment tool in health professions education: a systematic review and meta-analysis,” BMC Medical Education, 2023. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC10369684/
16. Adam Bridgeman and Danny Liu, “Frequently asked questions about the two-lane approach to assessment in the age of AI,” Teaching@Sydney, University of Sydney, 2 July 2024. https://educational-innovation.sydney.edu.au/teaching@sydney/frequently-asked-questions-about-the-two-lane-approach-to-assessment-in-the-age-of-ai/
17. AI for Education, “State AI Guidance for Education,” updated 28 October 2025. https://www.aiforeducation.io/ai-resources/state-ai-guidance
18. ExcelinEd, “State K-12 AI Policy in 2026: Milestones, Momentum and Missing Links,” 26 May 2026. https://excelined.org/2026/05/26/state-k-12-ai-policy-in-2026-milestones/
19. Goodwin Procter, “Federal AI Moratorium Dies on the Vine as Senate Passes the One Big Beautiful Bill Act,” July 2025. https://www.goodwinlaw.com/en/insights/publications/2025/07/alerts-practices-aiml-federal-ai-moratorium-dies-on-the-vine
20. Office of the U.S. Surgeon General, “Social Media and Youth Mental Health: The U.S. Surgeon General's Advisory,” U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, 23 May 2023. https://www.hhs.gov/sites/default/files/sg-youth-mental-health-social-media-advisory.pdf
21. Crowell & Moring, “House Passes KIDS Act H.R. 7757: What Online Platforms Must Know Before Senate Showdown,” July 2026. https://www.crowell.com/en/insights/client-alerts/house-advances-bipartisan-kids-online-safety-bill-but-senate-showdown-looms
22. KFF, “A Look at State Efforts to Ban Cellphones in Schools and Implications for Youth Mental Health,” 2025. https://www.kff.org/mental-health/issue-brief/a-look-at-state-efforts-to-ban-cellphones-in-schools-and-implications-for-youth-mental-health/
23. Roger A. Hart, “Children's Participation: From Tokenism to Citizenship,” UNICEF International Child Development Centre, 1992, summarised by Organizing Engagement. https://organizingengagement.org/models/ladder-of-childrens-participation/
24. Laura Lundy, “In defence of tokenism? Implementing children's right to participate in collective decision-making,” Childhood, volume 25 issue 3, 2018. https://pureadmin.qub.ac.uk/ws/portalfiles/portal/148759327/Tokenismfin.pdf
25. Tom R. Tyler, “Why People Obey the Law,” Princeton University Press, 2006 edition. https://press.princeton.edu/books/paperback/9780691126739/why-people-obey-the-law

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Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer

Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.

His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.

ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk

Listen to the free weekly SmarterArticles Podcast

> Lost at sea doesn't mean you're gone. Just away for a while.

Jump to: Sleep Song Lyrics

Sure a lot smaller every day Wonder why we feel this way You don't know that I've got nothing left to say

Some days the shore looks closer, some days it's gone completely. That wind never stops.

And Sleep Song captures that perfectly. It's a song that gets in you slowly.

I used to hear melancholy in it. Now I hear something more complicated: exhaustion without surrender. The peculiar condition of having been carried so far by weather, circumstance, love, grief, and your own questionable navigation that you can no longer quite remember where you meant to go.

I've been blown across the water Like a ship ain't got no sail.

For a ship with no port, no wind is the right wind, after all.

Simple imagery, complex circumstance. No sail doesn't equal sinking. It is still a ship. It is simply no longer deciding where it goes.

Nobody told me life had seasons like this. Map blown away in the same gale that sets me adrift.

No choice of current. Nor wind. I'd like to argue I didn't even choose to leave teh harbor. but that was likely just part of graduating to adult life. We're busy trying to understand the awe of the massive horizon we see for the first time in our lives, not realizing that the harbor of youth is shrinking all the while.

When we notice, it, it's too late. Can't ever go back. So we look for new harbors. Some find. Some just live a life at open sea.

Others go to the sweet release of the briny depths.

And that ain't no way to feel.

A declaration. It's sort of small and obvious. But a huge realization when we explore it.

This isn't how a person is supposed to feel.

And yet here we are.

No big drama. No storms, whirlpools or sea monsters to fight. We never get Poseidon and his trident. The sail never returns... it just keeps not making sense.

Sounds a lot like life.

Guess this was a good metaphor upon which to base a song.

We do get trees. Trees with winter wind. Makes me think of the wind in my trees that was always a warm hush. Calming cure to anxiety and loss. But here, the wind is cold, harsh, a driving master.

Winter wind keeps blowing through the trees But life keeps breathing gaily as you please Hey now, silver birches lying by the road Branches lined against the winter snow

The natural world never stops. It is a God-induced system dynamically powered by the Creator and we are powerless to little but adjust to its whims. Just because we're hurting doesn't mean it can stop.

The wind continues.

The trees continue.

Somewhere, someone is laughing and cooking dinner.

while our world spins and slips through the universe. And eventually you discover that this isn't cruelty at all.

It is permission.

Life goes on and we're given permission to live it. Not solve every woe, or make meaning from the damage. Though some romantic poet essayist will do just that.

Why worry about where the ship is headed? We only need to get to sunrise tomorrow. And then the day after that. Staying afloat long enough to let a solution find us.

We left the shelter yesterday

Yesterday.

That's all it takes.

Shelter can be a lot of things. Temporary lean-to or a blue castle on the hill. A relationship, belief, even a a version of ourselves.

Maybe even a vow or a promise we made to ourselves.

Then one day we find we're outside the place we felt safe. And maybe what drew us out was enticing and promised a better existence than we had in the shelter. More comfortable. Or more seen. Complete somehow.

Weirdly, we may not even remember when or why we left, just that where we are is different... and maybe it does seem better. But then there's that reason we were in the shelter to begin.

We might not even notice we're cold, or wet, or damaged or whatever. But someone says to us, 'hey, do your realize you're naked? Why are you outside?'

And the world suddenly seems HUGE.

But there we are, the horizon falling away to the left and the right and we might not even remember how to get home, or how long it took to get here. Just that the water seems fine and we love our new tan.

Maybe that's why Sleep Song feels less like despair and more like a declaration of interval. A glimpse into a possible future.

The quiet country between what was and whatever comes next.

A ship without a sail and winter roads. Lost, cold and empty. Broken and confused. But the ship is still seaworthy and despite all the weather, there is still life in the old hull.

Floating as gaily as you please.

That's enough for tonight.

Maybe that's what sleep is for.

---

Sleep Song – Hot Tuna

Sure a lot smaller everyday Wonder why we feel this way You don't know that I've got nothing left to say

I've been blown across the water Like a ship ain't got no sail That ain't no way to feel

I feel that longing loud and clear Dead end streets and I lay here When you're flying you've got nothing left to fear

'Less you're gonna cross the water Like a ship ain't got no sail That ain't no way to feel

Winter wind keeps blowing through the trees But life keeps breathing gaily as you please Hey now, silver birches lying by the road Branches lined against the winter snow

We left the shelter yesterday After we had played some way You can find that I've got nothing left to say

'Less you're gonna cross the water Like a ship ain't got no sail That ain't no way to feel

I've been blown cross the water Like a ship ain't got no sail That ain't no way to feel

---

In Summary: * And another quiet Sunday winds down. No outside chores were even attempted. The only inside chore was continued tweaking of the BK-20 Pro air cooler unit that I've set up in my room, trying to keep it running at maximum efficiency.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 225.53 lbs. * bp= 146/88 (69)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 05:45 – 1 banana, pizza * 11:45 – more pizza * 13:00 – bowl of home made vegetable soup * 15:20 – 2 HEB Bakery cookies

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:00 – wake up * 04:45 – bank accounts activity monitored. * 05:15 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, nap * Noon – listening to general sports talk on 105.3 The Fan, DFW's #1 Sports Station, ahead of this afternoon's MLB game between the Orioles and the Rangers * 16:20 – Well, heck. The rangers are behind 10 to 3 in the 9th inning, and I can't see them pulling a win out of their hats. So I'm turning away from this game to find something else to occupy my time. * 17:00 – follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials * 18:00 – listening to relaxing music

Chess: * 07:03 – moved in all pending CC games

Perhaps black heart emojis would work better.

Never take someone seriously online. and im the first example to that. seriously. i could write an entire page about how i’ve rediscovered my soul, poured my heart onto the floor, stared dramatically into the distance and contemplated the meaning of human connection. and then wake up the next morning and decide it was probably because i forgot to have a cigarette. or alcohol. actually, that explains a lot. oops. i missed my daily dosage of terrible decisions and, in its absence, developed emotions. How embarrassing, Ahmed. I should really be more careful with myself. anyway, this is why you should never take anything you read online too seriously. people believe absolutely everything these days. if i told you i was a horse, there would be someone somewhere going, “ Wow. i always knew there was something different about him.” No, you didnt. lets not lie to each other. you saw a man type four paragraphs and decided you understood his entire biology. i could make up a completely different life tomorrow and half of you would accept it without hesitation. new name, new age, new personality. suddenly im a retired fisherman living in Norway with seven cats and a very very tragic history involving a lighthouse. and you’d believe me. you’d probably ask what the cats are called. fuck you’d even ask me if im doing alright. this is funny, when people treat whatever someone tells them about themselves online as unquestionable fact. i would say.. the internet has abounded its own skepticism. you can announce that you’re anything, claim you’ve lived through anything, tell everyone you’ve been someone completely different for the last twenty years, and people will nod solemnly through the screen like they’ve been handed official government documentation with no questions or doubt. just a “thank you for sharing your truth !” How inspiring. meanwhile, i could tell you tomorrow that my name is ahmed, im actually 20 years old, I’ve murdered several people, i own an unnecessarily large collection of antique knives, and ive been living under a fake identity since 2014. and someone would reply “Wow. im really glad you felt comfortable enough to share this!!! “. Thank you. it means alot. the murder allegations are completely legitimate, by the way. Please don’t investigate them. i also have three passports and a pigeon named tofu who handles my finances. tofu is very trustworthy. has never committed tax fraud. allegedly, and somehow, someone would still believe every word of it. even ask me what my favorite knife is. The old italian stiletto i bought from an antique dealer in Milan, obviously. apparently belonged to a retired military officer in the 1920s. very normal thing to own. So yes, dont believe everything i write. but dont go assuming its all nonsense either. id hate to give myself that much credit for being funny. some of it happend some of it is non of your business and, oh for gods sake. listen to me, sitting here explaining myself to people on the inernet like im submitting evidence in court. silly me.

Anyway, im done being profound for today. you can stop reading by now, i have nothing to say. which means ill write again sometime..

Sincerely, A very unserious man with too much internet access.