Remnants fade
as pain sets in.
Some few words to mark this transition.
A wholeness is a comfort
and gratefulness conquers fear
in the end.
I am thankful
and I do not fear.
Though I do not wish for an end
I understand one.
Sharp focus
softened 
as edges smooth through the knowing.
And the knowing is a boon
as well as a curse.
I appreciate the beauty
all the more
and can see it in its infinite forms
and not solely those most apparent.
One last, lingering thread
stretches from me
to everywhere,
a small reminder
not to be forgotten
when this feeling runs dry.

Something slightly different
awakens from a 3AM dream;
spilling,
the well of my soul
overflows its stony walls
and yellow,
sun-colored love
escapes out and down
coating all.
From the pain
and the very depths 
of the pain
and all that was
the pain,
this yellow spring soul
overwhelms.
The pain is coated.
It is all coated yellow.
The joy is bounteous
from my center,
I feel every part of myself
and everything else, too.
It is euphoria.
It is profound ecstasy. 
The pain isn't gone,
but it is conquered by something else.
Some knowledge or oneness or experience or
some yellow.
I understand it is fleeting
yet for that
it is all the more beautiful.

Only once before
in another pain,
this yellow.
I was not ready
and I did not have the words for it.
Hardly do I now.
The warmth and comfort
dulls the strong pain in my face,
from the cutting.
I tried to share it then
and failed,
as I likely do now.
But that is ok
because I think the act of trying
is as involuntary
as the overflowing.
I forgive my failure.
Failures. Plural I'm sure.

This one started with a dream.
Something about the end of the world.
Something about the stars.
It was coming, and what is it in those last moments that we choose to do and to hold on to?
Nighttime, and one horizon dully glows red. Ominous incarnate.
Preparation about what is to come; the unknown and unknowable. Gather supplies and plan in the face of fear.
Though this seemed more ritual than practical. 
Because it was known that this was the end.
In some sense.
In all.
I recall grabbing coffee from the cupboard,
"Coffee will be a problem, we better bring this."
But to where, it was coming.
Something in the ritual. Something needed.
What do we do on our last night on Earth? 
We had plans. Many people had plans.
Many kept them.
Regardless.

A new introduction- two, shy, whom had not yet met until that night
talked on a street corner
facing the red glow.
In the face of the impending fear,
yellow boldness.
Smiles and laughter.
This night
as could be any other.
Something new is born
at the very
very end of time.
We had seen them some time before
meeting for the first time, 
and now we spot them again
where we left them
together. 
On the corner
facing the red glow.
They'll be ok.
A blooming beauty from the darkness.

Some small, distant few
give into the fear,
but mostly
a sense of peace enveloped.
What was there to do
anyway?
Not quite melancholy.
Not quite acceptance.
But peace nonetheless.
Soft and quiet
under the red glow.

For us
some small ritual.
You returned some package,
something small yet to be done.
Put a bow on it.
A small roll of tape in a perfect box.
We were surprised anyone was there to help us.
"Where else is there to be, anyway?"
Agreement.
Some small smile shared between them
as between us, too.
Something in the ritual,
so pure,
so perfect.
Some rightness of zen
to put something back
where it belongs
and fit a lid to it
and then walk together
hand in hand
outside
to watch the red glow.
But even that doesn't matter to us
because even the red glow
is coated with yellow
as the spring of my soul
continues to bubble over
all.

And so I awaken
at 3AM
in pain,
yellow covered as it is.
I shake and nearly vomit after some time;
it hurts
but I feel so contented anyway.
And so the yellow calls me to write,
and I do.
It fades, but is always there.

  

A proper soreness,
a pain
earned. 
What is the difference
from pain
inflicted external?
What is that thing
that allows pain
to be a comfort
when by some trial
or effort?
And why cannot
that comfort
be found otherwise?

My hand
viscerally aches,
nerves from thumb to mid forearm
as I type this.
Yet
grinning I recall the rain
yesterday
swelling the river.
Cold, earned suffering.
But chosen.
Chosen suffering.
The good kind.

It is regularly strange
to be human.

Some kind of smallness
destined for expansion.
Not quite a seed
but seed-like:
potential.
I want to see the future;
it is some blend
of impatience
and curiosity
and awe.
And maybe
a little fear
though not so much
anymore,
as it was.

I lift a small thing;
it is so heavy.
I write a few words;
they seem so many.

Because I will be starting an AI course next week that deals with modern ethical theory, I think it worthwhile to get my unadulterated thoughts down first, before they become corrupted by the university.

Problem: AI use is not free, and the costs are difficult to quantify. These costs include, without accounting for specificity or rank (or thoroughness): thermal, energy, air, water, land use, societal, political, military, privacy, and so on. Each of these stands on its own, and I make no attempt to delve herein, but simply to mention the complexity. The shortened version is that AI use is not free, so it appears we should be mindful of its use.

Framing: I have a conceptual issue with the notion that AI use is not equal, in either quality or intent. Whenever people discuss AI, it is within a giant bucket of all things AI, instead of being appropriately compartmentalized based on use cases. Making a meme is not the same as proofreading an environmental permit, and thus should not be held to the same standards for use. Therefore, it is appropriate to discuss AI, not in its whole-bucket entirety, but at the use-case level.

Implications: So far as we can reduce this complexity down to something digestible, I see two main items to address.

1. Given the difficulty in quantifying the AI use problem, we should be mindful of its use, generally, and limiting its use to beneficial use cases.

2. We take it for granted that certain use cases are beneficial.

There are several, immediate issues and outcomes from these two statements. The first is that we presume to know what the word “beneficial” means, and that we are the arbiters of that definition for all of humankind. The second is that the AI use problem changes over time, sometimes by the day. Perhaps it is not ethically permissible to use the latest, computationally taxing model to create a meme for your friends, but it may be using a different model. What is the price of a smile, anyway? Whereas I want absolutely the best model available for environmental protection, and I am assuming that the benefits outweigh the runtime costs.

The very, very short version is that not all use cases are equal. It would be nice for a query to initially return an estimated cost before run, “Your meme will cost 0.2 kW, and 4 mL of freshwater. Do you wish to proceed?”

Anyway, I’ll revisit this subject after my indoctrination.

This is a simple celebration.
Take a moment,
bask in the absurdity 
of irrelevant triumph.
A random Thursday's glory
smiles forward.
Toss me your hat.

One thousand eyes
looking
one thousand directions.
To each a thread
affixed to the brain
stretching attention
this way and that
until deformation.
Triage is a tornado
tossing each around the day
and hoping nothing falls.
And the constant discontent
of being unable
to fully commit
to all but the minimum,
with the knowledge of being able to do better,
yet unable
now.

Worse still
is the ooze
coating leisure.
Moments of stillness
unallowed
by the remaining threads.
Disassociation is an effort itself;
the tornado does not rest.
Have I mentioned lately
how much I hate
the wind?

Today is a good day to make bread.

It begins with a seed
placed
where it may succeed.
In a moment
it decides,
"Yes, here I can grow
until I die."
The ultimate decision;
finality
decided at onset.
A whole life
rooted
here.
No knowledge of possibility.
No possibility of change.
Trust
seeded
with impossibility
of regret.
And to take that chosen spot
and bring as much beauty
as potential allows.

I suspect
we are more plant
than we pretend.
The momentum of birth
is a powerful seed.
Although legged
and not rooted,
diaspora carries history
of inception
no matter our legs,
and no matter
how much we try.
And despite the regret
we must,
as our plant-likeness demands,
make as much beauty
right here
as potential allows.

Illness,
such as it is,
has been a muse
if nothing else.
Though there is a line
where past
even impassioned desire 
falters.
I found it.
Finally, I'm feeling more myself
and can return
to this.

I feel the yin yang's
curse.
Overwhelming blessing
tempered
with persistent reminders
of mortality.
It seems I am unable
to have one
without
the other.
"Such is the way,
such is the truth,"
it is said.
I've never put faith
in such superstition,
though it feels hard to deny lately.
I scream into the void.

What is a life without problems to solve?