Every step is another step toward volition or purposive striving.

My next step: shutting down the entire day with Aya.

I don’t have an answer for why she sleeps beside me all the time. Even back while we attended highschool, she spent most of her time with me. She told me she trusts me, but I never told her I was asexual. I guess she finds it obvious with the way I handle people.

“Aya, what are they doing?” I finished taking a bath, pushing open the door to my room.

“Ray and Alice?” She took a spoonful of honey from a container she keeps supplied in her bag.

“Ya.” I changed clothes in front of her.

“Same as usual, destroying the so-called ”top players“ as they jested.” She smiled and gulped her favorite treat.

“Lols. I understand completely.” I put on the glasses I rarely use and looked in the mirror.

“You should model or something. You’re gay anyway.” Wide-eyed, I gazed at her from the mirror.

“What? You’re not?” She dropped her phone, staring back at me.

“No. No. I’m just not gay. I’m the kind that doesn’t care about relationships, you know?” I picked up a coconut oil bottle, turning it around as I briefly browsed the ingredients.

“Oh. . . that’s why.” She stood up and calmly strolled out the door.

“Where are you going?” I coated my hair, leaving it fresh and shiny.

She called from out the door. “CR.”

I sat down, relaxing my arms and back on my blanket on the floor.

Ever since I arrived here, the weather and atmospheric feel embraced me instantly. Environment really helps me write.

“Do you remember that time when at school when the teacher told us to graph several areas of influence on culture since robotics emerged?” Aya finished brushing her teeth. She brushes three times a day. What a rarity.

“Oh. . . oh! Where the teacher told us to get out and play ball for a whole day if we don’t finish it?”

“That was basically cheating, wasn’t it? Eight hours? They’d do twenty-four hours if the varsity team’s bodies could take it.”

“That was rough even for them though, expected of an specialized school.”

As a school council president during my time at that school, my social skills indicated mediocrity, but even if my leadership proved stagnant, my principles gave my students a proper estimation of requirements and effort and skills needed to maintain individuation.

In terms of smarts, I made sure to keep them from reaching the top one by improving my physique, sociability, and considered others.

Ha. I recall the last thing they said to me the day before dropping out: “So, what happened to you?”

I abandoned their acknowledged “civility”, resorting to residing alone.

I’m sick of perfectionism. If that’s not the gateway to hell, I don’t know what is.

“Uhh. . . got a flashback again. . .” It was about “her” this time.

You think attacks like that get me? Imagine attacks in public.

Let me rest my head for a moment. Ahhhh. . . Sugoi.

I drowned in fantasies exploring every nook and cranny of the lands from the heads’ strongholds to the lowest, humble shelters.

If I hadn’t seen the lives of the townspeople and tribesmen, I wouldn’t have felt better about meeting up with the gods of the worlds. Although not all encouraged good conduct, each of them cared about forming societies in accord with their personalities.

They have “meetings“ with each other whenever the Pause occurs, breaktime for gods. I’m not belittling them, but their entire setup mimics that of a high school’s. I hang out with them from time to time. If they’re gods of worlds, I’m the visitor, less overseeing, more observing.

“Rigid, what happened to that intellectual world of yours?” He chugged on an juice can and swallowed a jerky.

“Ice. They’ve recently discovered ice,” Rigid said. soothed his lap and cleared out his throat.

“Ice? Whoever found that out must have done a plausible feat of repetition.” His earth’s a tropical beauty, no wonder why he’s overjoyed about it.

“Regal to be exact. He deserves a king’s honor.” Rigid said, correcting the god of intuition, Asterisk.

The other gods and goddess lounged on the other tables, jesting on who did the best since the Pause before this.

I sat there, humming. No one could see me unless I allowed them to.

I decided to go back.

“Aya, are you awake?” It was still dark, so I couldn’t see her.

I called again. There was no answer.

I lay still for a few seconds, then pulled myself up.

I saw her disjointed body on the bed, snoring quietly.

I tiptoed around the pitch-black room, making sure not to hit Rino. Rino. Rino—what is Rino doing here!?

Before kicking her in the gut, I controlled myself and walked out, slowly opening and closing the door.

It almost felt like heaven pissing it all out. . . should I have said that?

Fine. I’ll just go grab an apple and delight myself.

Highly-sensitive people need a great deal of self-control to use their sensitivity to flourish.

I’m one of them, and for a long time in the past, it has been tough not knowing how to work around my nervous system’s way of doing things. It’s not an illness, I must say, for high sensitivity rants of the extreme creativity it benefits to HSPs, or Highly Sensitive Persons.

In order to bring out this gift, one HSP must avoid sensory overloads at all costs, giving their tired senses time to rest in perceptual isolation. I do this by lying still in a pitch-black room, listening only to rain sounds and the fan beside me. Even when I write, I minimize all distractions with focus centered on my work, which is also a form of meditation for me.

I love performing and interacting with people, but to put myself in a prolonged processing of information with no way to calm down, it proves painful and confusing.

My bedroom’s door opened and a phlegmatic neighbour hobbled out the door. “Hey—hi Sky.”

I stared at my coffee, then up to her, and replied .“Hi. Rino. How’s your day?”

She blurted out, “I-I’m great. How about you?”

My repressed face moved stiffly across the room. “Don’t you think this is a beautiful day? To be somewhere? Not here? Without telling me?”

“No, but—” She stopped herself from replying, putting a hand over her mouth, shifting her gaze downward and gritting her teeth. “I thought you wanted to do it. With me.”

I wondered what could she be talking about?

Oh.

I facepalmed. Both for me and for her.

This was a good time to breathe in some fresh air outside.

My town’s trees towered above our walls as it appealed to any passersby’s lungs.

Where shall the wind take me today? To the unescapable vastness of profundity or to the convenience store? How about both!

Rino walked alongside me. I don’t seek solstice from Rino, or anyone for that matter. I look within my own soul to connect with. I wish her “a happiest life”.

We met a guy by the name of Rick. He stayed near our places. “Oh, you’re the guy who danced in the rain?”

“I? No, that wasn’t me. That would most likely be my twin brother who enjoys standing amidst the rain as I do. If you would be willing, it would be nice to have his neighbours visit his house along with me.

I stared at him then slowly turned to Rino. “Okay!” Rino replied.

We bought our stuff and quickly returned home, also following Rick to his brother’s home.

“Do you have any idea as to what the word ‘privacy’ means, you buffoon?” he ranted. “I’m busy writing my masterpiece! Get out!”

“But—”

“Get out!” Danish silenced him.

Rick pointed toward the sidewalk. “Let’s go back,” he whispered.

“What’s up with him?” Rino asked.

“Hmm. He isn’t connected with his highest self today, hehe.”

We came home without any further distractions until it started to rain.

There’s a storm. I remember now. Storm Alabama.

It’ll reach its peak here around midnight as the broadcasters confirmed.

“When will the rain stop? I want to know what it’s like to see the sun without rain droplets blocking it,” Aya commented, turning her head to observe the heavy aura the storm dispersed.

“I dislike the rain,” Rick huffed. “Hmph.”

“Oh!”—I spit the water back into the cup as I drank from it—“You were here?”

Rick began to remove his jacket. “Yes, for the distance between this place and my home is long. If you would kindly allow me, I’ll be sheltered right here in your home.”

Rino opened up her tablet to draw a simple storyboard. “I thought you liked rain? I guess this ‘rain’ is more than enough for the likes of anyone.”

Aya sipped from her cup of tea which I thoroughly insisted on giving instead of coffee.

“What are your hobbies, if I may ask?” Rick continued conversing.

“Volleyball is one.” Aya pulled her hair back into a ponytail.

“I love writing,” Rino guffawed, undoing the arc she turned into a zigzag because of her laughing.

“Hey, that’s my hobby!” I chuckled, chomping a apple half.

“Hmm. I create video essays and upload them on the internet. It’s my passion.” He lifted the hot choco I gave him as a notion of thanks.

We sat still listening to the calming storm as we sat amidst a group of complex human beings.

We don’t forget the gravity that slowly pulls once two people know each other’s names, comprehend the uniqueness of each other’s personality and story, and know where to find each other.

It’ll be the beginning of a new “solar system”.

Rino sneezed, blew her nose onto a tissue, and finished her storyboard. “Now that we’re done with that. Let’s start drawing for real.”

Rick left on the train stop. Rino asked if she could sleepover for tonight. I was like “Yeah, sure.”

I studied fantasy and its components before I slept at 1 AM. We slept cozy and freely.

Sigh.

Where have I gone?

It’s too late, isn’t it?

All I can do is . . .

weather it all down to a pulp.

I’m afraid . . .

of doing things the same way.

I can’t move. . .

it’s so tight.

I don’t know . . .

where I’m going.

Save me please . . .

save my fragile soul.

I am weary, tired, broken, lost, and straight up nobody. . .

but I want to be something at least.

Rino turned off the speaker. “That’s a familiar tune I haven’t heard in a while.”

The bright, morning sun rose high above the clouds as I painted it to delicacy.

“Aya, this must be some sort of meditation even for you.

“Maybe I can take up painting one day to illustrate my books for fun. My illustrator will find that very disturbing though.”

Aya flipped her hair to the side. “I drew a mountain within a mountain within a mountain within a mountain with each mountain peak having a small city on top.”

“Beautiful. Maybe I can write about that.”

I read articles about me opening up my identity. It was no big deal except for the way people took it hugely impacted my performance in reads, views, and followers and supporters (and haters).

I don’t want to deal with [] right now too.

Oh hey Brian. I missed ya. How’s ya day?

Fine, fine. Just don’t mess up, okay?

Sure, ma friend.

I postured appropriate facing the screen, nudging down my keyboard to put out for announcing. This is my chapter of power. The Chapter of Rising Power.

I quoted a intricate writer named after the horseshoe brand of his father, “Kale”. He lived under strict fallicies that his father constituted to him when he was a child. He lived directly impended by his father’s fantasy.

The fantasy of his father can only be described by his inability to properly realize the worth of other human beings besides himself. His inner workings justified itself as the only human living among many inferior “non-humans”. For him, he was the most human.

His son was impeaved to the point of aggression and hopelessness, but he found a way out to a new life. He wrote, “I live to experience the art that is life.”

There a couple writers asking me about how to construct a story prematurely. I told them about the law of Theorem. Basically, I told them it was called that because the construction of a story is based on truth. “Without the consistency of a vivid understanding of stories that have been told already within their various genres, styles, and story plots, you cannot imagine a better outline not limited by what a story you have already told.”

I imagined myself picking up a few pieces of paper delivered by tiny homunculi delivering and turning back as ants in a rush to supply their nests with food.

I understood this and continued to read the pieces of paper: “Do not look back,” “The journey is ahead,” “It will not be easy,” “Even gods fall short of hope sometimes,” “Thus go on with confidence despite your undying fear,” “For fear is essential to survival,” and “Kill your old self,” were some of the words they sent to me through these pieces of paper.

I’m not surprised. The vastness around us constitutes to the world at large. Every step is governed by constant alert on what could be next and coming to rewrite our story to the good and the bad.

I even mistook my own failures as stepping stones to doom, but if I only saw my own feet rewriting its own stepping memory to advance forth later even better, I would have taken off much sooner.

Where was I during that time?

Rick’s brother, or cousin, shut the door on us, or did he keep the door close the whole time. I don’t remember everything completely.

I should visit him for extra annoyance. Just kidding. I need space to think. I can’t think without at least paying my “neighborhood guest” a visit.

“Ex-cuse me dear Sir!” was his answer to me when I waved high from his doorstep. He was looking through the window, glaring at me with unfeasible eyes.

I stumbled, regaining my balance and replying, “Hi, I’m Skylet. So that person you met during the rain incident? I’m him.”

“Hm. . . oh! I remember you! Come in, come in!” He cheered. “I thought you were one of my ‘patrons’ threatening me to do his idea.”

“What. What patrons?” I whisked my rain coat away.

“That ‘patron’ who wanted me to do his idea. Well, considering his prolific donation, he kinda has a right to ask, but I really don’t like people telling me what to do. . . .”

“I”—I sipped a gulp of wine—“see. I understand completely. . . how much is his donation anyways?”

“More than the best writers’ average month of pay.” He paused, dubiously analyzing his previous assertions.

“Well. . . good for you, I guess?”

“T-thanks, I guess?”

“Now"—lowering my voice to a whisper—”what’s up with you and your cousin-brother anyways?“

“He’s much of a prick when it comes to visiting my imaginary spheres of ideas. He thinks its trash.”

“What did he say about it? And what are your ‘spheres of ideas’ about anyways?” I sipped again, this time slurping the entire glass.

“I like,” he mumbled, sounding synonymous to a person humming, “bizarro fiction.”

“What—bizarro fiction—what’s that?” I switched chairs.

“It’s the absurd, grotesque satire genre.” He sat down gradually.

“Oh.”

“Here’s one.” He handed me a illustrated book. It had a giant picture of a oversized cockroach with arms and legs.

“What was your name again?”

“Dan-ish.”

“Superb! Well, I’m leaving now.” I grabbed the jacket I hung on a chair ond walked out.

“Do you do reading classes? Or meetings? You know, those things you do in bookworm clubs.” Or any of the two.

I picked up slack and carried the boxes my sister brought from Abamala, or from her work. I laughed just two minutes into doing a short sweeping to clean since after last night’s bout. I feel manic, picking up cowering miniature men I imagined.

Are you me? Or a part of me?

I’m not you. You’re not me. We’re a pair. A pair of two “dovey” wanderers.

The sea is bright, filled with light. The night cowers. The sky covers. The lie darkens. The heart warpens. The coil of plot thickens.

She came to the tower where he lay. "Prince Astaroth? Are you there?"

Her whispered voice carried on through the night while he struggled, covering his ears with anything he could find.

Soon enough, a bell rang throughout the courtyard, signaling midnight. He thought, "If someone finds out she's doing this, she'll be goners."

The girl, however, kept calling from down below.‌‌ "Prince? Please listen to my call!"

"Uh, what. . . what's up?" the prince groaned, giving in to her continuous bawling.

"Do you see?" she huffed, brushing her hair against the wind.

"See what?" He slouched, leaning downward.

"The city's burned down," she cried.

"Burning. . . burning? What do you mean burning?"

He lifted his eyes in search of smoke. "There's no smoke! What do you mean 'there's burning'?"

"It burned down weeks ago. The smoke already left the air by now." She sniffled, wiping her tears with her gentle hands.

"I don't. . . I don't get it?" he roared.

"But the bell's been ringing ever since?"

"No one needs to ring that bell."

"Uh. Where's Mother? And Father? And Brother and Sister? They're all. . ."

"Check for yourself."

"But they locked me here for. . . oh god. So that's why they didn't let me out!"

He ran toward the door, attempting to open it.

He kicked it. Slammed it. Rammed it. And nothing. It held on. Locked.

He turned around, running back to the window. "Hey, can you help me find a rope of some sort?"

"Here." She threw up the rope she stored in her knapsack. She attempted a few tries but finally got it up to him.

He tied it to the bed he slept in for these past three months, hoping it wouldn't go snap. "I knew you could do it."

"What . . . ?" He got down safely but horribly executed the descent. She patted him in the back to congratulate.

They groveled down the steep blasted road.

As they stumbled upon stiff ground, he stood up and walked alongside her, taking in the aftermath: the flattened structures, the dilapitated diablerie catalysts, and the signature carnage.

The prince drooped, falling to the ground. "It appears to be more an onslaught of revelry than a fearsome tug-of-war as it is."

The prince huffed: "What are we going to do next?" She pierced him with her eyes. "Get food, water, and head off to find others."

"Sure then. Let's do that.

Once they got themselves in new apparel, health, and preparedness; they rode the few horses they could find and departed.

"Aren't those beautiful little beings on their way?" a shadow cooed.

"They're yet to face the messenger, " his servant tut-tutted. "Remote—but they're on their way, yes, my lord."

The shadowy figure ceased his opposition, beaming. "Teehee!" "Where are the outcasts?" the prince related, stumped.

"E-even the outcasts disappeared?" the prince's lady cohort admitted; she was just as shocked. A whisper: "Oh, angel, O divine, I am your child, seeker of Thine. Please kill my enemies, for they detest you. Kill them all, without your delicate dulcet tune!

"Filth Est / Nos Dos Lazarus!" The skies filled, carrying a morgue of corpses that began heaving down toward the endangered prince and felon.

"Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh gosh.

"You're joking right?" He searched the skies, the surrounding mountains, and around him. He found the perpetrator: a svelte ghoul, benevolently bound by an crushing oath choker; laugh-gurgling from intense enticement; and wriggling from self-abasing grogginess to the bone.

The prince knew he wasn’t “goners” when his Holy Protection activated, but the ghoul smirked at this revelation.

"I’m a dervant. See, since you have the Holy One's protection, you must be Royalty. Will you please holify my ragged body?"

Inversely smiling, the prince catered to his own clothes and moved on, ignoring askance the dervant’s earnest fleeting waver, tonelessly blubbing his dreary way.

"What. . . ?" His female companion hiccuped. She didn't know what happened until she got back up, brushing off the dust from her face and battle skirt.

She put a hand above her eyes for shade. "Prince. Where are you going?"

"To find sensible people!" He dragged his legs forward and backward, moving himself across the landscape.

"Prince, we have a candidate over here." She pointed with her thumb, grinning in apparent panel.

He stopped in his tracks: his face coping against himself.

"Uh. Fine."

He created sparks by crossing his fingers. Moving towards the dervant, he began gesticulating for his healing power to manifest. Ending his incantation, he thrust his hand on the girl's forehead, deracinating the eminent black particles of curses and removing then immediate jargon the curses' curator spouted..

She began glowing incandescently. Her eyes cleared up, and her hair shone.

Good!

Another good work has been done! “Yahooo! I can sleep now.”

“Riven Dangledale. . . that’s a good character.

“What do you think Aya?“

I looked over. Oh right, no one’s here except me.

“W-what’s up?” She finished bathing and was naked in front of me, coming in without me noticing.

I put a hand to force my eyes shut. “Uh. Do you have any idea what I remembered, Aya?”

She applied “face whatevers” to her face, still naked. “Oh? And what is that?”

“My dog.”

You don’t have a dog, though.

“A dog?” she asked.

You don’t have a dog, though.

“Yeah. A dog? Or was it in a dream?”

I said, “You don’t have a dog, though.”

I do. Or maybe not. It might have been in a dream.

I can’t think. Oh no. Burnout; burnout.

Aya: “Have you taken your meds?”

Me: “No, I haven’t. Why? But seriously, where’s my dog?”

Aya: “Take you meds. I’m serious. Before you find your dog, take your meds. It’ll help you ‘find’ him.”

Me: “S-shut up. I don’t need meds to take myself to a better place. I don’t care about being controlled and used anymore. Some people are happy with that. But not me!”

Aya: *hands me the meds* “Take these.”

Me: “Shut up. G-give me a break. I. . .”

Aya: *raises her eyebrows*

Me: “. . . fine.” *swallows the pills*

Aya: “I knew it would be needed.” *gets her clothes and begins wearing them*

I coughed. “What happened last night?”

Aya busied herself in fighting co-op battle bosses with her degree certificate as a mousepad. “Die, die, die!”

She makes gamers look bad. I thought, facepalming admittedly.

Aya finished the boss fight. “No sweat! So. What was your question?” Using the mouse, she rubbed the certificate even more, imposing her new identity to her metaphorical past society.

The degree certificate sighed in disbelief. She was one of the greats, it thought.

“I need you to tell me why I feel like I got hungover from last night,” I mumbled. “Did you drug me and send to the slavetraders? And drugged me again to conceal the memories awaiting my impending doom?” I giggled, slyly looking out the window for any agents of any sort.

“Drink your stinkin’ meds, you rascal!” she huffed, going back and forth to catch me.

“What is thy wish, my princess?” I blurted, ostentatiously dodging her continuous staredowns.

She fussed, sinking her deep fingers into my throat. “Now eat!”

I gagged, forcibly taking in the pills my sister wanted to give me since I woke up.

“Do you have any problems over there?” Rick’s brother, Danish came from the house right to our left. He’s our neighbour.

“Oh, we were having a good ruckus over here.” I jolted: Aya pinched me.

“A good ruckus? You mean, the kind that’s sexual?” he exhaled, gagging on awkward feedback.

“Y-yeah—n-no. I mean no.”

“Who’s with you?” He peeped from the window, hoping to see a lovey-dovey couple having their way with each other.

“N-no one. Yeah. No one. Right?” I fixed my hair and checked the window. He was still there. Go away. I feel sick.

“Right. . .

“Hey, aren’t we going to do that meeting we agreed on yesterday?” he insisted doubtedly.

I mentally shrugged. The five foot one tall man waiting outside didn’t want to give it up. “Sure.” I grinned cynically.

Rino left the house. She said she was taking a vacation. I have no idea what that means, but okay.

Aya’s right here. She’s not naked. Don’t worry.

Rick is pretty busy at work. He also doesn’t really write. . . in the same way we do. The storytelling way I mean.

So it’s only me and Danish (and Aya). Good. Wait. “Dash,”—I whispered, “you told me to call you that right?”—“Do you. . . have any friends?”

“Uh. Yeah. Great many friends have come to my aid at times, especially when I do not wish it.”

“Is that a no? Lol.” I held off my laugh until he says “no”.

“Yes. But. I don’t care about them. . . in the way they do, I guess.” He scratched his head.

I drank a cup of milk, pouring a glass for him. “When’s the last time you contacted them?”

“10 months?” He stopped scratching, proceeding to bite his growing finger nails.

I coughed. “Oh. Okay. I also don’t like interacting with my own species.” I thought I was the only one, I thought.

He coughed twice, even harder than I could ever in a awkward situation. “Y-yeah. I don’t do that, too.”

Aya came in, bringing in her feminist cookies. “This is it. Now give this to the daily centre.”

“Mam, I fluffin’ oblige,” Danish took one and handed it to me. “Now do the same, my friend.”

“To the goddesses!” we shouted in unison.

We heard the screen door squeaking. “A descended goddess?”

Our visitor huffed. “It is I, thy Savior—Rino.”

We snapped back to our senses. “Oh, it’s just Rino. I was like ‘Oh goddess! Is that a goddess?’ ”

She facepalmed. “I knew you guys would do this.

“Wait. Is that. . . brother of Rick?” Her curious eyes moved left and right to see the five foot one tall man sitting down behind Aya.

“Yes, I’m ‘brother of Rick’.” He looked up, convulsing inhibitingly.

. . . I had a bad dream. I woke up around 12:45 a.m.

For some reason, my tongue feels bland. I feel senseless. It’s weird.

What was that dream about? I don’t want to remember.