There was an aged, aged man whose name was Prophet, though he was not born with that name. His face was marred and marked with Time, and if anyone knew him truly they would call him Father Time. To him every soul is but a vapor. All believed he had lost his soul, but no one thought he perceived their limits.


This Prophet was no prophet, despite the imagination of his onlookers. He could merely discern the future. This man’s great mark was his face, while the young feared his eyes as he could divide between truth and lie with a gaze. No mysterious power fell upon him as the younger came to desire for themselves, except the power coming from one thing: Time.


If the Prophet would prophecy, he would speak of time as a gift. God is a Giver of wisdom. Wisdom comes with time. All men are vapors, but with God-given time a vapor may smell sweet.

Man of the Whirlpool

I read in a book that morning that if I could find the Man of the Whirlpool, he could give me water that would heal all injury when ingested.

That great desire for revenge filled my soul. Love for a fair one smote me – something I took no heed of until she set her affections on my brother. He complied with joy. The heart which drew him to her I longed to wound.

The heart is in the stomach.

I lured him to the riverside. We played there as younglings – peaceful then, peaceful now, beside the water’s power. Yet, that day I marred Peace.

Then I run up the river, to find the whirlpool. At that great waterfall I called the Man by name. A blue hand rose and groped toward me.

“I cannot reach that far!” I cried.

With a crash the whirlpool ceased. Up from the water crashing behind him stood a man of deep blue skin. His stature towered above me, twice of one man. The whites of his eyes were like two moons shining into the night of my soul. He knew my plight. He could discern my countenance.

“Give me healing water,” I beg. “I have wounded a man.”

A jewel-crested goblet he held in his right hand, stooping down to retrieve the water. The river rose. The Blue Man walked. It was as if an untamed power of the universe approached to destroy me.

He held the goblet high. “What is your name?” he asks.

“I am Aaron,” I answer.

He lowered the goblet to my reach, and I took from his giant hands.

There I stood in utter horror. The contents were all of blood, my senses smitten by the stench of death.

There I stood before a great Man, falling to the ground, his skin deep red.

No healed wounds came of that meeting.

Rebeka – April 3, 2041


This is something I do not understand. I know that I become anxious, but I still hope so much to identify why I get anxious so often. It gets me depressed, and even when I’m not depressed but I’m still anxious, everyone else seems to interpret my anxieties as depression and melancholy.

I remember as a child waking up from dreams about being lost in crowds. In the dream, I’d be afraid (naturally), but when I’d wake up I would still be anxious. I might not have had the exact same dream repetitively, but the same theme recurred more often than I’d like.

I guess the emotion was strong enough to hit me like a train. If I allow myself to speculate, it is ingrained in my mind to be anxious. Though, only particular things make me anxious, as I can assume is the case with everyone.

Something as simple as whether or not to stay with my parents or ride with my grandparents to the same destination caused me great pains in pressured moments. The same principle applies. The less I know, the more anxious I am. Do not give me the sun, unless you give me the sky, also. Do not give me an ocean without its inhabitants. If you preach to me, do not remind me that “you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.” I am far too aware of that.

Three minutes before an assignment was due for schoolwork, and I was still typing. My anxiety served me then, for sure. But can that be called anxiety? If one is good and the other is bad, if one aids productivity and another diminishes productivity, then what two different words can I use? Anxiety and – what?

My parents have argued in front of me. That made me anxious. As I think about it now, I don’t understand why it makes me anxious. Do I think one would leave the other, leaving me behind, too? I seriously doubt it. So, abandonment isn’t my worry (at least, I hope not). In that case, what worries me then? I can’t figure that out.

I stood right before the first step. Four steps up and I would be on the porch. One step forward and I could knock on the door. The person would come and answer the door, and I would tell them the truth and hope for her mercy. But, I didn’t take a step. I waited, longing for the moment to be over, for the moment after the fact so I could go ahead and deal with the consequences. The steps were sturdy, the porch was immobile as were my feet, but my life was a mist waiting to be carried by the wind. The anxiety came from my chest, but my shoulders felt anxiety’s weight. Only by the choice to cause the anxiety dance did I make my feet move, and the dance partnered with my words. Only after a long dance between mind and words did the moment end, and the consequences came. After that, anxiety looked me straight in the eyes and fell into my arms. I carried her to her bed, and she slept for a while as I cleaned up her mess.

Maybe what makes me anxious isn’t abandonment or the acquiring of something new. Rather, my anxieties come when I perceive a coming loss. In dreaming of the confusion o crowds, I was afraid of losing order. In watching my parents argue, maybe I truly did think that I would lose one or both of them, though I knew not how. As I cannot come to a decision easily, I am anxious over what I might lose if I cannot take both options.

Nora, maybe you can help. I anticipate that you will be able to see inside my mind, and if that is the case then maybe you can help identify what’s actually happening with me.

I am so sorry, though. I don’t want my anxieties to fill you. I wonder if what you will gain from me are mere visuals, not also the feelings I have attached to them. I hope that your feelings will be your own.

Nora – April 2, 2041

Lots of things make people upset. That fact isn’t my problem. It isn’t my problem that I get upset. Whether or not I can control how upset I am is my responsibility.

I’m probably being too honest. I don’t do that. I guess I’m being honest because I’m genuinely afraid. I won’t hold back that idea.

Fear makes me upset. I don’t like it when I see myself nearly degraded to the level of whimpering like a child. I might be only 15, but I’m no child. I don’t have time for that. Life is tough. I want to be prepared for it early.

But, back tot he topic at hand. I’d probably be described as touchy, so apparently a lot of things trigger an upset-like feeling in me, but my goal is to control that. Even if I don’t say it, I continuously think of saying to people, “Just calm down.” Upset people make me upset, you could say. Actually, don’t say that. Don’t trigger me. An upset version of me is sharp and cold as ice and will burn you like lava.

However, when I’m not upset, I’m probably seen as cold and calculating. No nonsense. Be thou not irrational, and I will show thee care…in my own way.

Still, apparently I’m touchy. I’m told so (often indirectly, in a passive-aggressive manner – something I find one of the most upsetting things of all, though I rarely say it). Do not physically touch me (this coming operation feels incredibly violating in that regard). If you speak to me once and I show myself to be deep in thought, don’t try again. Don’t put yourself down unnecessarily. Don’t put me down to the point of breaking (I completely disregard anything condescending to myself until the point of breaking – which might be sudden and without warning, so it’d be safer not to put me down at all). There are loads of other things that make me upset, but these are the ones that I can think of off the top of my head at the moment.

Rebeka – April 2, 2041

What makes me upset? A lot of things. I don’t like hearing other people argue, especially when I see that it could be easily resolved. You might say I just don’t like anger. Though, I get angry. Does that count as upset? I don’t know.

So, what makes me cry? Goodbyes. Seeing a loved one in danger. Loneliness. Being overwhelmed with responsibilities, because I feel like I should do them all in an unrealistic amount of time.

I don’t like it when people leave. It makes me upset, yes. I remember a number of times where I didn’t even speak to a person, but I grew to like them, and as they got up to leave I realized that I’d probably never see them again. That has made me upset.

How I react to seeing someone in danger tells a lot about the people I say are “loved ones.” Often that means family. Sure, I say that about my parents, but who else? Close friends? Definitely. Others? I wonder how I would react. Sometimes life is too safe, but I don’t want to say that, because as soon as I say that something dramatic is probably going to happen, isn’t it? Ah, superstition, let’s not go there.

What about memories? I remember a day when I was being told to clean the house, and everything was going wrong with the vehicles, and my grandparents were having health problems, and my other grandparents would not leave us alone about traveling all over the place. I know it was worse on my parents, but I felt responsible (which is silly, I know). As soon as I heard of a problem, I wanted to fix it, and I felt responsible even though I knew that I couldn’t have any control over it.

I guess I get upset about what I might lose with this operation. If I can’t remember things, then what? I don’t know what amnesia is like. I can’t guarantee that I’ll have amnesia, but the nervousness and anxiety is just too much.

Maybe I get upset over things that I can’t identify, yet. Maybe later I’ll write about those when I can think of them.

Rebeka – April 1, 2041

I’m supposed to write on happiness. Alright, then.

What makes me happy? A good joke. Being near someone I like a lot. Uninterrupted sleep. Enjoyment from a good story or a good conversation.

I like being silent and listening to two other people talk. I can learn a lot. I guess I really do like to learn. I might not like it in academia so much, but learning something I like makes me happy. I guess everyone is like that. I dunno.

An early happy memory? I remember how happy it used to make me when my dad would come home from work. I got used to that and lost the happiness I had with it. I know what makes me content, but happy? Contentment makes me happy. With me, they’re often one and the same. I guess what makes me feel happy – with good feelings inside that feel like my insides are moving around (in a good way) – are good conversations with good friends in a good environment. Thanksgiving, Christmas, those cold times of year when you want to be warm and inside and close to people. I love that. That’s happy. The smells of those times still make me happy.

I get happy when someone seems like they want me around. That happiness fades, though, whenever I start to see what they truly think. I guess I haven’t really learned my lesson with that, at least not entirely.