Part 1: A little vignette of I was 6

When I was in first grade, I had just learned what the word "precocious" meant, and believe me, I was at that age smart enough to want to make such a creative projection into the future, a way to help me in the future, that I could not even believe my own ingenuity myself, and mark this opportunity to express at this young age which no one could with their lesser intelligence in their teenage years. Meaning, they abstained from the lack of the definition of "precocious" in their inherent abilities of the mind, they were just less smarter and meaningful than when I was at such a young age. Why did I feel special that day? I had just heard about the term self-destruction. My vocabulary was exceptionally not advanced at this age, and would otherwise mean two words which couldn't absorb into full understanding, and it was always this lack of individual understanding and fancy words that prevented my imagination from having the source and realism to create the deep, deep, philosophical, and genuity of a darkly-felt aura that I deserved, in that just like an intelligent mind deserved to embark on a journey to discover that self was above in intelligence than one's even own futile descriptions after such a long period of anticipation in that category, of horrible intelligence, I think that I wanted to be a really darkening as self-awareness grew and passionately advanced person at that age and usee it to attract the stories which could make me that person. I didn't know what exactly made me what to dimly lit person at the time and was most insecure that the stories needed for these attainment didn't exist in that nature. I was me, but 'me' was bare. I needed depth from the darkness of what influenced these constant array of emotions consistently able to exude the darkness.

Before 1st grade started, I had my first experience. An outstanding one, initiated by myself, solely. My mother had bought me these detailed picture book about Greek myths, and the illustrations on the pages were so cool that I couldn't stop reading these short narrations. I wanted to be advanced, and because I already knew what "advanced" could mean to inspire in the deepest excitement of a person's journey, but wasn't surprised that I knew this at my age, I wanted to get the hard chapter books which had translated the Greek literature, and it was then when I asked an older kid to buy one for me that I learned about the characters of Sirens. Sirens which, to remind the textbook description are,

"Sirens are mythical creatures most famously known from Greek mythology, often appearing in stories like The Odyssey. They are usually depicted as part-woman, part-bird, though in later traditions they are sometimes imagined as beautiful mermaid-like women. Their most distinctive trait is their enchanted singing voice, which is irresistibly alluring. Anyone who hears a siren’s song is drawn toward them, often to their doom—ships crash on rocky shores, and sailors are lost at sea." (Source: ChatGPT)

I don't know why I got this idea, but I was lying all stiffly and tightly on my bed, and tried to force myself, out of curiosity of how my imagination works, to make my brain work as hard as possible in a matter of short time, specified, like 40 seconds, or a another longer burst at 2 minutes, to respond to my own prompts of how these women became Sirens if they had a past life before the indictment to become evil, or how they felt towards each other to make a dialogue between a two or a group of them respecting still the unfairness and their inextricable entangling witht thier songs. A meager thought I had as the monotony of school became known to me, is imagine, if their bodies were real, they could be curious that their sounds were fading and from the cage of fleshly nonsense, they were the emblem of the danger of beauty subduing all other qualities and estimation of one's weakness, away. This is what I tried to revise the, moral of the lesson, as I asked the AI generator, in my mind with new fascinating vocabulary to, but I didn't feel much about this myth, or its relevance of being true. In my older years I was to have a life-changing experience revolving the sirens, which had a new understanding to me as it happened; however, it already had an unconscious influence on me in those particular dates. I didn't know why, but I felt a propulsion to test the limits of a word, brave and hurt together like those amazing writing prompts which bring forth captivating words with a magically pertinent backdrop, and a clear voice of monologue escaped forth from me to do, and if time was waning to do something as this prompt had the expectation of being fulfilled to the end of the elapsed time, imagine if not fulfilling this timed test had vicious consequences which is why again you must do it, not why you imagined it to make you do it, if this "must" was real, and I went ahead and stapled my finger. It hurt so badly, I couldn't even breathe and the waking dreams of puncturing against artificially caused yellow, black, and pink backgrounds were the rebel of my mind which computed instantly for the pain, or in reaction to the concepts of finger and staple, and finger "in" staple. Yes, this was a strange thing, and made me so scared of puncturing my body for the rest of my life, actually, and it's been about 10 years.

Part 2: Slowing down, abandoned from all help

My life had been really peaceful and happy for many years afterwards, to put it simply. Now I was 14 years old, and every year I had completed with near perfect grades, and stuck to the same pleasant friends. However, I was hiding a deadly secret, that somehow I felt my brain getting slower and slower, like dumber but rather than acting on any fallacies, it was wafting incomplete. Nothing could describe the terror that struck me for these three months where my brain decayed but my whole control was slowed from revealing any more regularities to other people than more interaction would expose from me. When my brain was, for a lack of a more fitting word, more awake, I began to fall in the idea that the misfortune of some natural retardation like Alzheimer's affecting me, however the truth was it was draining from a source that didn't need the morals to tell me or speak to me if it didn't even have words in the first place. Soon, people around me noticed and I was diagnosed with bradyphenia, the kind that needed long-term hospitalization. Yelling out and screaming in distress after equating the term to irreversible and advancing retarding, I was sedated, and my violence made me grateful for it.

I woke up in a 3rd floor in a bare white room with a small bunkbed stapled to white rubber flooring. It was just a regular psychiatric ward. I myself was placed in hospital gown so long it dragged on the floor, and my feet were so acutely cold that they were chilled pure white, and purple to the sides. It was just like less tragically though, what had happened to my brain, I found that looking closely at an angle through which a far away window on the other side of the building had installed, that it was land reaching to the water, the coast had bent around. There was of course, no recourse as to why the island couldn't be my place now, nor why they couldn't not move me and let me stay where I was before. First, what to do, I thought, focus on the word so it's truly stable as the word first had occurred to me. Comfort, rooting me in where I was, I went to the island, the consultant table, as they called it, and asked behind the plastic barrier if some squishies or puzzles could be given to me. I was secretly hoping to escape from this island, whatever it was, by one means or the other. (Source: Squid Game)

Suspiciously, I asked where the phone was, and asked my parents to bring a scuba costume. For the time during the visit when I was allowed to play with my mom's phone, I switched the costume for halloween for the arranged parts in which they could function from the professional divers' website. Anyways, because Halloween fun was allowed as long as the doors were sealed shut with a chaperone monitoring from outside, I put on the costume and practiced quickly and nervously adjusting the mouth piece and attaching the oxygen tank. One night, I had it. This place with the loud banging every few seconds, check ups with no sympathy, and the frigid white walls, the frigid air making me stiff like deadness, it was to break out of using the physical method that seemed easy enough. It was an opportunity not to be repeated, my chaperone had fallen asleep after they made a mistake themselves in exchanging with a place upstairs. I took out a small sharp piece of the tank's adjustment from the quietly stored extra pocket of the scuba diver 'costume' and first indented into the glass with a swivel or two to create a vulnerable nook. I'll spare you the action of my small adventure on the way to the ocean, it went something like this:

1) elevator to the underground layer of the building,

2) through a window in the first layer we put a little camera there to watch we're going outwards in the right direction, and

3) and then climb into a storm drain from a vent

And then we are released into the darkness of a deep layer of an ocean, I never knew where, and felt more smug that I didn't bother to find the country may be different or where we were the sympathetic, vulnerable culture had no way of seeping towards me to my great interest. It was just beginning; this is the expository.

Part 3: Siren tears

Sometimes a poem can be the motto of real life as it chooses to transpire, into absolute craziness.

By Shakespeare: What potions have I drunk of Siren tears (Sonnet 119)

""

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

Distill’d from limbecks foul as hell within,

Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,

Still losing when I saw myself to win!

What wretched errors hath my heart committed,

Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!

How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted

In the distraction of his madding fever!

O benefit of ill! now I find true

That better is by evil still made better;

And ruin’d love, when it is build anew,

Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.

So I return rebuked to my content

And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.

The water thickened as I descended, not blue, but silver like mercury. I saw thoughts, old ones, drift by like jellyfish, memories were that which could occur to me purely true and without motive —fading ideas, words half-forgotten, the contours of childhood fascinations, even the most deepest ones of great creativity appearing vaguely, lacking, but from which that it was before. It was like my memory as it contained orbs of remembrances, was held in the palm of a mysterious god and released, through his consciousness as reminding me of who I was before, then, (... I don't like ellipses but I'd like to add one here)

“Precocious,” I remembered, and accepted the decayed form I was swimming as, I enjoyed more than anyone should be wary of, the sound of a word being read by my mind. I didn't have any presence except what the gods read to me vicariously their voices appeared to me the transfiguration adopted to help me, and had no magnificent tendency of feeling less satisfaction then I had felt in sensation, that happened to touch the heart.

This is when I met the sirens. They sat upon black coral thrones, their hair woven from strands of glimmering gold, or black with the shimmer of silver. Their beauty was personified by a face caught between beauty so radiant after attained to the greatest degree, and tainted fortunately with the ambiguity and sorrowful enchantment of ethereal and simply put as giving each of their beauties a different personality, effulgent, iridescent, or dolorous, to use so fittingly some of the vocabulary I had just learned. Their curse was not the song which they sang and thought about in every waking moment thinking aloud — ideas twisting like smoke through water. They were crying,

my requests for myself:

1) the siren said, if I could from their song form an artificial memory to fill up their decaying memory, they would use their creativity to help me back. They tried to sing many songs from their fragmented past, and relied on me to piece together overlapping, confirmable events that could follow into a narrative based on my inution about the order of the confirmable overlapping details which led to a general event, and they ordered me to rewrite their past, they were singing in a chorus sometimes, and different lyrics I had to focus on because thye were sure they were friends in their past life (kind of) and emerged down the path of darkenss to this fate together, they told me to rewrite their past

2) Let me continue, and they were willing to accept my fictional storytelling as their actual memory of their forgetten past, because they were so fascinated by stories, and claimed them to be true. They heard the talk of shipmen, tried to shipwreck them after their songs accepted their little friendship stories as inspiration or really by making themselves as the main character as the narrator of these shipmen they made false stories true about themselves then give some ideas about how to incorporate my need to revamp my slowing mind and how we together with drama and conflict with the sirens decide what was the real source of the issue

can't continue with this story anymore, it's too hard!