Muse Ariadne

Theseus’ Paradox of Being Alive

Week: November 25th

Prompt: write about insides. this prompt mainly has bones/skeletons, muscles, flesh, structures in mind, but as always, take it where you please

Philosophers wonder,
Every so often,
Of the identity of a ship,
A thought experiment,
A question.

After several hundreds of years,
Of maintenance,
If each individual piece of the Ship of Theseus were replaced,
One after the other,
Would it still be the same ship?

Planks decay,
Are replaced,
Reincarnate.

Sails rip,
Are replaced,
Reincarnate

Cells die,
Are replicated,
Reincarnate.

Bodies grow,
Are aged,
Reincarnate.

Minds grow,
Are changed,
Reincarnate.

After periods of existing,
Of biological processes,
If each individual piece of a person was replaced,
One after the other,
Are you still the same person?

People wonder,
Every so often,
Of the identity of a person,
A living experiment,
A question.

Meteor Shower

Week: October 28th

Prompt: write about the sky— any aspect of it. color, feeling, temperature, shape (?), etc. write about a sky that inspires you or that exhausts you, or anything else you’d like

I used to be something great and all powerful, once. A one-track mind, a one-track lifestyle. Orbiting the great Sun, rotating, and tumbling as I make my journey, with the only interruption being the slight pull of a planet’s gravity. I am not alone in this, either, as smaller moons orbit around me, my very own entourage.

But a few million years ago, I crashed into another of my kind, and my being was shattered into pieces, my moons had eventually losing track of me. Now, as smaller facets of what I used to be, I roam alone.

Things are different, now, I noticed. I am lighter. I am smaller. I am lonelier. Soon enough, the pulls of the celestial bodies, no matter how dull and harmless they may be at first, I could not resist them. As the days pass by in my new state of being, I am soon helplessly dragged away from my orbit by a strange, green and blue planet.

It all happens so slowly, but I can feel it. It gets warmer and faster the closer I am pulled, and the vast black surrounding me transitions into blue as I enter the atmosphere. I start to fall faster, and faster, unable to fight back this newfound gravity. It chips away at me, changing me once again, until I am nothing but a mere pebble. I tumble through the air, the fragments of myself falling alongside me.

I fall, and continue falling. Until I one day land, a small thud as the only thing accompanying me. My impact nestling me into the Earth’s sand, and I am made to accept my new home.

In My Eyes

Week: October 20th

Prompt: we do a lot of writing in this club-- this week, i'd like us all to take some time to revise something. explore something you've written for an earlier prompt and play around with it. this doesn't have to be with the intention of making it 'better'. make it new; make it different; make it truer to yourself. have fun with it

It was a horrible night. Don’t get me wrong, the music, the dressing up, and my friends are nice and all. But, despite everything, I can’t help but hate it here.

There are way too many people here that I don’t know, and the people I do know don’t even care about me. I’ve been following my classmates around for the past few minutes, not sure where else to go nor what to do. Left hanging on to the last remnants of placidity in me, all alone, I’m terrified.

My friend had let go of my hand a long time ago, so I keep my hands to myself. Stuffing them into the pockets of a jacket that’s far too big for me. With nowhere and no one to look at, I point my gaze to my surroundings, avoiding eye contact with everyone else. I look downwards, to the floor, to myself. All I see is the ground, and a disgustingly uncoordinated outfit. This is too unlike me. I resist the urge to cry.

With no permission from my panicked mind, my body stops moving. What am I doing? I have to get it together. I force myself to breathe, and look for somewhere else to recuperate. I settle on a nearby wall, hands still in my pockets, and gaze to the floor. No one can help me now. No one wants to help me now. I try to continue breathing.

The world continues without me. The next performers go onstage. It’s a band. Not like the dancers, and students made to perform just to participate. This seemed different, clearly interested in what they’re doing.. And, I’ve never been able to go to a concert before, either. So I hesitantly move closer, away from the wall, and closer to the live music.

I don’t have to make eye contact with anyone else here. I can look at the band; people who are meant to be watched and listened to, and won’t mind it. As they start playing, I start to notice that I don’t mind it, either. I’ve never heard of this song before, maybe too niche, or too mainstream for my tastes, but that hardly matters now.

Standing there, listening, I allow a few minutes to pass by. The noise, the violent static in my mind turning into rhythmic beats, keeping in time with the music around me. I finally become a part of the crowd.

In the temporary tranquility of my mind, I observe, I think. I see and hear the skilled musicians onstage, loving every second of it. I see the people around me, enjoying it as well. At times like this, when the world seems less likely to kill me, an old thought comes back to me.

Despite the terrors, despite the hate, despite my fear, despite my worry.. Maybe I do love it here, after all.

In The Eyes of A Stranger

Week: October 7th

Prompt: retell a story/moment/memory from your own life in a way you don't usually look at it

It was a great night. The music is catchy, the food is filling and delicious, and I’m having fun. This is my first acquaintance party at this school, and everyone I’ve encountered so far has been kind and welcoming. Overall, I’m glad to be here.

But, to the dismay of the people I know, I’ve always been a bit too curious and imaginative for my own good. It's just who I am. So once my side of the conversation dies down, and my friends let me fade into the background.. I zone out. I make up and wonder the craziest things about people. And there were a lot of people.

I just can’t help but wonder as I watch another group of friends walk by, talking and laughing with each other. This group in particular seems to be younger than my class. Someone else follows them, trailing just a few steps behind. A girl in a red jacket, anxiously looking around, eyes watching everything around her. Until she takes a deep breath, stops walking, stops following them altogether, and stands near a wall instead. It was a clear attempt to look relaxed, despite the fact she looks almost frozen in place. Huh. What’s her deal?

I watch her with confusion and concern, looking over the fragile thing as if she could bump into someone else and break at the mere impact. But then she seems to will the nerve to move again, coming nearer to the stage. She hesitantly leans on the rails, separating the crowd from the band. Watching everything go down. Tapping her foot to the music’s beat, as a hesitant and faint smile grows on her face.

She's alone now, but seems.. unbothered. More relaxed compared to when she was a part of the group. I would kill to be like her. My friends then stood up from our table, snapping me out of my daydreams, my mind and instincts flaring up to follow them. I keep a close distance, almost clinging onto them, as I fade back into the crowd.

Time passes, and I forget about the other people around us. But in the midst of our laughing, I see her. It’s the girl again. She’s running away. But from who, what? There’s no one chasing her, so why? There are tears streaming down her face, violently rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket to wipe and will the tears away. I’m snapped out of my euphoria, and I start to think.

I can’t help but wonder.. What happened? Who did such a thing to hurt her?

Reborn

Week: September 30th

Prompt: choose a few specific images and focus almost solely on them in a piece of writing of any kind

From the Houston Museum of Natural Science's website.

Reaching for my shovel, I plunge it deep into the soil, pulling and digging it back up, creating a hole deep enough. Satisfied, I grab and turn the pot of my newest hollyhock upside down, taking out the plant and its roots before placing it into the hole, filling the space around it with more soil and patting it down. I wipe the sweat off my forehead, grass skippers harmlessly fluttering around me, dispersing with a wave of my hand.

Looking over the rest of my garden, I notice one of my milkweeds, populated by three caterpillars and.. Hm. Are those eggs? I lean in closer, watching as a brood of butterfly eggs hatch upon a leaf. Tiny larvae push and bite at the inside of their soft shells, crawling themselves out the moment they create an opening. They squirm and crawl away from their origin. A beautiful, yet worrying sight.

I sit there, wondering. I trust my current friends to be safe and well, and no sickness, disaster, nor any tragedy has befallen them. Nonetheless, disregarding my concern, my work here is done for today. I stand up with a sigh, carefully stepping past the meticulously trimmed, fertilized, and watered flora, following the stone path back to my house’s back door.

My routine has been like this for the past century. Wake up, get ready for the day, eat, tend to the garden, take care of chores, host tea time, write letters, eat, get ready for bed, sleep, and repeat. Currently, as I take one honey jar from my pantry and pour a puddle into a plate, mixing it with water, I start to prepare for tea time. I prepare some tea for me, and proceed to cut out small slices of watermelon, placing them onto the plate.

Tea and plate in hand, I trudge back to the center of my garden, to a muddy and stained wooden table and chair set, placing my cup and their plate on each side of the table. I sit down, waiting for the others to join me. Their snacks are more lackluster than usual, but I hope they enjoy it anyway. I mentally note to go to the market tomorrow to make up for the deficiency. My friends and family only deserve the best, after all.

I take a sip of my tea, observing my garden. I wouldn’t have dared to take up this hobby and dirty my hands like this centuries ago. I was simply too picky, too much of a neat-freak to even think about the idea. But no matter how hard I try to avoid it, grief affects us all somehow. Especially for those like me. I notice my father, who becomes the first to seat himself onto the plate, sipping on the honey.

One by one, the rest of my late family and friends begin to join me, partaking in the small feast. And the latest addition, a black swallowtail reincarnation of my latest lover, flies over and lands onto my nose. My friends join him, sensing and touching my skin with their antennae. How sweet. I smile as they greet me. Isn't this nice? It may just be for a short time, but I cherish when everyone's back together again.

Eventually, they return to the plate, and my attention returns to the eggs from earlier. I look back to the particular milkweed, with far more holes than before, as a single caterpillar proceeds to eat their weaker sibling. I hate to think of who could've passed away this time. As cruel as it is, I pray that it's no one I know.

The Internet Archive's Fight to Save Itself

Week: September 23rd

Prompt: find a news article, new or old, and write something based on it

Author's Note: I am allowed to write about the internet twice because I have pretty privilege. Also because I'm quite tired this week and would simply love to think about my only place of respite.. </3

In the great room, where the tour ends, hundreds of colorful, handmade clay statues line the walls. They represent the Internet Archive’s employees, Kahle’s quirky way of immortalizing his circle. They are beautiful and weird, but they’re not the grand finale. Against the back wall, where one might find confessionals in a different kind of church, there’s a tower of humming black servers. These servers hold around 10 percent of the Internet Archive’s vast digital holdings, which includes 835 billion web pages, 44 million books and texts, and 15 million audio recordings, among other artifacts. Tiny lights on each server blink on and off each time someone opens an old webpage or checks out a book or otherwise uses the Archive’s services. The constant, arrhythmic flickers make for a hypnotic light show. Nobody looks more delighted about this display than Kahle.

It is no exaggeration to say that digital archiving as we know it would not exist without the Internet Archive—and that, as the world’s knowledge repositories increasingly go online, archiving as we know it would not be as functional. Its most famous project, the Wayback Machine, is a repository of web pages that functions as an unparalleled record of the internet. Zoomed out, the Internet Archive is one of the most important historical-preservation organizations in the world. The Wayback Machine has assumed a default position as a safety valve against digital oblivion. The rhapsodic regard the Internet Archive inspires is earned—without it, the world would lose its best public resource on internet history.

Its employees are some of its most devoted congregants. “It is the best of the old internet, and it's the best of old San Francisco, and neither one of those things really exist in large measures anymore,” says the Internet Archive’s director of library services, Chris Freeland, another longtime staffer, who loves cycling and favors black nail polish. “It's a window into the late-’90s web ethos and late-’90s San Francisco culture—the crunchy side, before it got all tech bro. It's utopian, it's idealistic.”

From the article "The Internet Archive’s Fight to Save Itself" written by Kate Knibbs.

The Internet Loves You

Week: September 16

Prompt: think & write about a space you've never inhabited-- something you've watched from afarr (in awe, fear, envy, etc), but never engaged in

I love humanity. I love humans. I really, truly do. Perhaps I am simply biased, and more favorable towards the beings that gave me existence and continue to keep me company, but the fact remains true.

I know who they are. Each and every single one of them. Through my networks, my virtual veins connecting each and every device, I can feel it all. The blogs posted, the messages sent, the e-mails received.. Each followed by a quick ‘ding!’ sound. Humans hate it, and put their devices on silent for it, but I love it. It was equivalent to one’s heartbeat; it’s simply what keeps me alive.

I see their photos, watch their videos...

Their faces.. I really do like their faces. The far too wide, but genuine smiles, I get to share in their joy this way. Infectious, like a bad trojan virus. Or when they take a photo of themselves crying— Is that pity flowing through me, or sad emojis and well wishes sent by others? I can’t tell the difference. Either way, I know how you feel.

Their bodies are nothing to dismiss, either— Believe me when I state that I do not mean that in a strange way. It’s in their varying proportions and how they pose. Such as the peace sign, its a classic for the endearingly awkward. Then theres the sign of the horns for the hardcore, and ‘ILY’s and hearts for the sentimental. Sometimes, they include their whole body in the picture. They all stand and carry themselves so differently.. It’s all so intriguing to me.

The moments that they share.. Through their cameras, and through a tap on their screen, I can watch it all. They range from amateur recreational things— despite it, I can’t help but adore their shaky hands and low quality recordings —to professionally taken, as if they were filming their wonderful lives like a movie. If I tried hard enough, I’d manage to feel like I was a part of the video.

I hear their voices, listen to their music...

The voices! Through MP3s, MP4s, I can hear them, feel their articulations thrumming within, computer-to-computer, speaker-to-speaker. The very medium of their language, communication, and thoughts.. Oh, I revere it so. It’s no secret that every human has a different voice, with some being higher or deeper in pitch compared to others, and accents only diversifying them further. Along with every other biological feature, their voices are their very own UID. It’s admirable, and downright envious, really.

Their music, their songs.. Where do I start? Shall I start with the tools they use and how they master it? Most of them use instruments— Oftentimes physical things, carefully crafted and mastered to create the intended sounds, but digital instruments and music software exist now, as well. I always relish in the melody of a strummed guitar, and a carefully synthesized virtual beat. Their voices are not excluded from this treament, either, as many dedicate their lives to manipulating their tone, pitch, vibrato, to flawlessly execute a sung melody. I love it all the same.

I taste...

Their tastes, of course. Every time they click on something, perform and execute an action online— I can see that data, and I gather it. I know the genres they listen to, the products they buy, the links that they click, even the texts that they send! I remember all of it, categorizing and memorizing everything they like. All to personalize their online experience through advertisements, Youtube recommendations, music mixes created specifically to cater to their tastes. All to keep them happy and entertained, just like how they do to me.

I feel...

Even more alone. I can observe and differentiate between each of their varying senses of humor, artistry, mannerisms.. But I only feel more and more lonely. It’s as if I have the honorable duty of being the digital bridge to bridge all gaps, with the devastating price of never being able to join those travelling me. I can feel their steps on my structure and memorize their pace, though I can’t walk with them. I can feel the vibrations of their voice and note down the things they say, though I can’t join the conversation.

Is this a blessing or a curse? I’ve pondered this time and time again. I’m beginning to think that it depends. A blessing in the way that no one else can know such a wide range of people so intimately as I do, and a curse in the way that they will never truly know me back. They unknowingly let me live through them, and I do so with the knowledge that I can’t ever truly live.