Introduction: Love as an Eternal Question

Good afternoon, students and listeners. Today, we will discuss love—not as a romantic cliché, but as a complex interplay of human psychology, philosophical reflection, and literary archetypes. Our case study is the story of two individuals: one fears losing their appeal due to age, while the other insists on the constancy of their feelings. This is not just a personal drama; it is a mirror reflecting timeless questions: What is love? How does it endure the test of time? And can we, like the heroes of great English novels, find meaning in it?

Part 1: Psychology—Attachment and the Fear of Rejection

Let’s begin with psychology. John Bowlby, the father of attachment theory, argued that our ability to love and be loved is rooted in early relationships. But what happens when love matures? In our story, one partner worries: "I will change, and I will no longer be loved." This is a classic example of the fear of rejection, as described by Karen Horney. She wrote that anxiety arises when we project an image of ourselves as "unwanted" or unworthy of love.

Here, we see a conflict between external (physical aging) and internal (sense of self-worth). Psychologist Albert Ellis, a pioneer of rational-emotive therapy, might say: "You’re not afraid of aging itself, but of what it supposedly signifies—the loss of connection]." Yet the other voice in this story responds: "I love you for your essence, not your shell." This points to secure attachment, where love is built on acceptance rather than conditions. Research shows that relationships where one partner affirms the other’s unconditional worth foster emotional resilience (Fraley, 2019).

Part 2: Philosophy—Time, Being, and Acceptance

Now, let’s turn to philosophy. The fear of aging is a fear of time, and time, as Martin Heidegger wrote, is the foundation of our being. In Being and Time, he describes us as "thrown" into a world where finitude is inevitable. The heroine of our story fears that her finitude—physical and temporal—will destroy love. But her partner offers an alternative: love as an act of embracing this finitude.

Here, we can draw on the Stoics, particularly Seneca, who taught that happiness lies in aligning with the nature of things. Aging is natural, and love that says, "I choose you as you are," becomes a Stoic act. Or, as existential Jean-Paul Sartre might argue, love is not just a feeling but a project we build together, despite the absurdity of time. In our story, one partner sees this project as eternal, even if the other harbors doubts.

Part 3: English Literature—Love as Narrative

Now, let’s explore English literature, where love often faces the trial of time. Consider Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. Elinor Dashwood loves Edward Ferrars not for his looks or status, but for his inner honesty. Her love is a choice of both reason and heart, overcoming external obstacles. Our protagonists could be Austen’s characters: one clings to the depth of feeling, while the other fears that external changes will unravel their story.

Or take Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Catherine and Heathcliff exemplify a love that transcends the physical, becoming almost metaphysical. "I am Heathcliff," Catherine declares, implying that their bond is not about bodies but souls. In our story, we hear an echo: "I love your essence, not just what I see." Brontë shows that love can be destructive but also redemptive if we accept it as something beyond the surface.

And what of Shakespeare? Sonnet 130—"My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun"—mocks idealization while affirming a real, earthly love. "I love her as she is," says our hero, echoing Shakespeare’s hymn to imperfection that makes us human.

Conclusion: Love as an Act of Creation

So, what do we see? Psychology tells us that love is strong when built on acceptance. Philosophy teaches that time is not an enemy but part of our story. And English literature reminds us that great love stories are not about ideals but about struggle, choice, and the warmth of hands clasped beneath a single blanket.

Our protagonists are not characters in a book, yet their story could be a novel. It’s about the fear of loss and the courage to hold on. It’s about saying, "You are my sunset, my wind, my home." And perhaps their love is not just theirs alone but ours too—a testament that we can love not in spite of time, but alongside it.

Thank you for your attention. Any questions?

Professor Victoria. 2025.

You may think it all automatic, but when I was beginning my career, ahem, in way back when, these things were done by craftsman. Alas, I also lost my esteemed profession to computerization.

I had a very important and dare I say, creative task, of identification. By number.

We have in my family, great respect for the writer and the librarian, as much as for the reader. Hence, my eagerness to enter this profession. Like many pertinent inventions, the impetus came from governmental necessity. That bountiful Mother of Invention. The philosophy was one, if I may oversimplify, of Unification. By which I mean there was need to make uniform, as well as unique, our system of identification. It would not do, for example, to have ten or more John Smith's running around the cells.

Of course, like others, I got my start, as it were, on the bottom rung of the ladder, writing Prisoner numbers in white paint on the black of jailhouse jumpsuits. By hand, mind you. Each number unique, while encoding certain identifiers. Not unlike, the Dewey Decimal system. I excelled at my task and was promoted naturally. I advanced from serializing people, to creating barcodes for objects of all sorts, national and international.

This is where things began to wane. I regret, on my end, I saw a decline in business as global economy flourished. Fortunately, I had enough years behind me to look forward to a comfortable retirement, a respectable government stipend.

I can only add as final remark, my awe, at the advancements in my field. Not only are we serializing people and objects, by computer, but we are now also serial numbering intangible goods.

Truly a pinnacle of achievement!

03.12.2025

The Serial Writer challenge @Last

And the Lord said: Let there be muck!

Before there was life, there was muck. If it wasn't for the serpent, Eve might have told Adam to keep his mucky hands off her apples. Noah took two of every kind of muck onto the ark. The dinosaurs missed the boat because they were stuck fast in muck. And people have always been mucking in, mucking around, and mucking it up. The ancient Greeks wrestled naked in muck. The Romans built an empire on muck. Serfs in the Middle Ages owned nothing but the clothes on their backs, and the muck on their clothes. Caravaggio could paint muck better than anyone. Shakespeare wrote several plays about muck. It was muck that lost Napolean the battle of Waterloo. Queen Victoria had her own private muck pit. WW1 saw miles of trenches dug out of the muck. Orville and Wilbur Wright were the first to fly over a bit of muck. The world told Hitler to muck off out of it. The 1960s were all about peace and free muck. We smoke muck. snort muck, inject muck into our veins. There are songs about muck. Movies that are full of muck. Books like The Idiot's Guide to Muck. We share our muck on social media and like other people's muck. Muck makes the world go round -- Where would we be without it?

An empty abyss. Quiet knowing shadows. 1 door. And a body I can no longer control. Sounds don't exist. Memories come and go in a series of waves, hellos, stories and goodbyes.

Confusion fogs my brain at first then denial sets in for a moment or 2. Slowly as if coming out of a deep sleep I see and spend a moment chatting with memories from not too long ago and realize it's over. No more memories, no more laughs, no more tears, no more sighs and no more… anything.

Just a door, plain and deceptively simple, but it will seal my fate the moment the hinges creak and the door swings. During the walk I reminisce on good old memorise, have chats with moments that hurt but made me stronger. Everything feeling surreal and not quite real. The smoke and shadows seemed to hold their breath as slow dragged-out footsteps carried me towards the plain white door.

My family… I hope they're ok. Promising myself I think, "I WILL watch over them." Guilt hits me like a punch to the stomach. I have left my family and friends to mourn my passing. "How could I? No! Please no let this not be true!"

I wonder what's behind the door as I'm still slowly approaching to knock. I wish I could go back and tell everyone it's ok and I'm fine. I regret nothing though. I don't think I'd redo anything if given the chance. Just maybe say I love you to my family and friends and then fall into the sleep of eternity. They said this was the easy part of life; I've got mixed feelings on that statement.

The door loomed and became larger with every slow, dragged-out step. It finally dawned on me, toe to toe with the door. I'm not going back. The need to crumble, cry and mourn my family and friends takes over my heart. Why? Why did I have to put them through this? I, of all people, the one with the fear of grief and loss had to be so selfish as to put my family through what I feared most.

IM SORRY! The words tear at my throat as my traitorous body ignores me. it raises my hand and slowly brings it down. Tears build against dam walls I wish I could open.

A new wave of guilt pierces my soul and makes me wish that I would just knock already and not knock at all.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am so so sorry.

The door opens after a single knock and resignation overcomes me and my mantra of guilt and self-loathing quiets as I take my last breath.

I'm sorry I went first, my friend.

I'm sorry I made you weep for yet another family member.

I'm sorry my body didn’t hang on. I wasn’t ready either.

I'm sorry I didn't know it was over, maybe I would have said I love you one more time.

I'm sorry for being selfish. I’m glad I didn't have to watch you go first. I will be having tea with Papa, and we’ll await your turn. I’ll be the one on the other side. Waiting for you to knock so I can open the door.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I had to say Goodbye

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they all tell me im beautiful

they all try and get to know me

but none of them are you

none of them stay up late talking to me

none of them talk about our future

they don't know me like you did

they haven't memorized the outline of my lips

they haven't memorized my heartbeat

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The clocks tick an unsettling sound as I stare at the plastered white hospital walls. There is an overwhelming scent of lemon disinfectant that's making my nose curl and everyone around me anxiously awaits for their news. Some are sleeping, some are crying, and some dismiss themselves calmly so that they can scream down the hall in peace. No matter the reason, no matter our story, something in all of our lives led us to this hospital waiting room, someone or something happened to shift our entire universe as we know it and suddenly here, we all are sitting here not speaking a worked verbally but sharing millions through our eyes and actions.

It's crazy right, how so many people enter waiting rooms every single day, for themselves or for the ones they love. These rooms hold secrets centuries deep, sorrows nobody could begin to understand and so much love you could bathe in it.

Lives are born here; lives end here too.

I feel my nerves twitch causing my brain to spiral once more, I have been here for 10 hours and still haven't heard a word about my mother, if she is okay, if the surgery is working, and if she will get better. I watch as strangers lose the loves of their lives, I watch as stranger's welcome new members into their family and I watch as people enter the hospital only to never leave it again.

There are dozens of doctors talking with everyone around me, assuring them their loved ones are okay, telling them that some didn't make it past the procedures and letting others know that they are able to go see their loved ones soon; and for 10 hours I haven't heard anything, no updates about my mother at all and every time I ask the front desk, they assure me I'll hear details soon and that I should go sit back down and try reading a magazine.

I grab a small paper cup from the water fountain dispenser and fill it half full as I watch the local news channel talking about our 7-day weather forecast; it's supposed to be 60 and sunny, my mother's favorite kind of weather. I think back to my childhood, all the endless summer days outside in the sun with my mother, running around, screaming with joy and filling up my energy on endless popsicles and pints of ice-cream. I remember the time I turned the hose on her and she yelped at the cold waters impact and how she chased me around the yard and held me in her arms, forcing me to feel the coolness of the water.

"Delilah?" A male doctor says catching my attention and bringing me back to reality.

"Yes?" I ask as worry fills my eyes

"The surgery went well; your mother is doing fine; would you like to go see her now?"

I nod my head, so happy to say anything else as I follow the doctor out of the waiting room, and towards the big brown doors that will soon lead me straight to my beloved mother, my best friend and my entire world.

I glance back once more to all the other strangers in the waiting room, and without saying a word I give them a look telling them everything will work out okay and that everything will be alright.

The Serial Writer

He pours words into the bowl,

lets them float together in the milk of meaning,

some dissolve too quickly,

some stay dry and uninspired no matter how long they soak.

A spoonful at a time—

some bites too big, some too small,

a soggy metaphor slides down his throat

and he wonders if it was ever worth writing at all.

He crunches a sentence between his teeth,

too literal,

too forced,

spits it back onto the page.

The words are getting mushy now,

blending into one another,

no crisp edges, no distinction.

He thought it would be satisfying,

but it’s just another half-eaten draft.

The night was warm and mild

By moonlight gently aglow

I lay there half asleep

My thoughts quiet and slow

As I turned to switch the light

A sound echoed nearby

And again I was awake

Tides of sleep washed away

At first the sound was foreign

But then I heard a word

Beneath the mild moon

The predicament was absurd

I stumbled to the window

A man stood near the door

And chatted on his telephone

A sound I couldn't ignore

He would finish soon

How long could the phone call be?

And then he'd walk away

And maybe I could sleep

Minutes passed

And then an hour

Still the man remained

Somewhere an owl cooed

His presense was tedious

He could have been there for years

His words buzzed in my head

I wanted to stab my ears

He needed to be stopped

So disgruntled at best I rose

Rest was a distant shadow

Dreams were foreign prose

The man shouted and laughed

Fueling my pounding heart

He had to be stopped

He needed to depart

The door knob was cool in my hand

My heart a staccato beat

Blood pulsed and pounded

The floor creaked under my feet

The man could be hostile

I knew not his face

But I only wanted to sleep

To rid him of this place

I went to the kitchen

To grab a sharpened knife

It was better to be safe

Somewhere an owl cooed

The man was oblivious

He spoke and shouted still

The sound that deprived me of rest

He needed to be stopped

His voice was like needles

I unlatched the door in silence

He spoke and shouted still

A tone that bordered violence

I knew not what to do

At my back the blade concealed

So quickly he whirled and turned

Shadowy features revealed

It all happened quickly

The man and I alone

It felt like watching through glass

As icy metal struck bone

To the ground fell the stranger

I hadn't even learned his name

His phone cracked and clattered

Somewhere an owl cooed

And then there was blood

From his chest it poured and flowed

Hot, sticky, everywhere

I had only wanted to sleep

The moon watched overhead

Before me the man died and bled

That taunting, silver eye

Illuminating the body, cold and dead

From my hand fell the kitchen knife

Echoing a chaotic mood

The predicament was absurd

Somewhere an owl cooed

Nobody saw

Except that silver eye

Maybe I could get away

Wordless is the sky

I had only wanted to sleep

In defense my actions were made

A mantra I repeated

As I hid the bloody blade

The blood stuck to my hands

Panic would not relent

The situation was robbed of logic

Somewhere an owl cooed

In the street sounded a scream

But they could not know it was me

The body more corpse than man

And I still walking free

I hand't been alone

Somewhere, someone saw

I had only wanted to sleep

My conscience broken and raw

In prison I'd never sleep

Where inmates yelled and stewed

If they took me it would end me

Somewhere an owl cooed

Outside, another scream

If I ran, I'd never sleep

A life of hidden uncertainty

Somewhere and owl cooed

They had to know it was me

I was running out of time

The clock was deafening

That final, telltale chime

There was only one true escape

From what I'd done

From what would be

Somewhere an owl cooed

Once more I uncovered the knife

My hands were sickened with sweat

And my heart thumped and pounded

Somewhere an owl cooed

The blade was sharp and cold

The only escape I knew

I drove it through flesh and bone

Welcoming sleep, final and true

as his stronghold diminishes.

Signals, triggers, and ushers kickstarting debut

of demure "Flora" who slowly but surely attempts

to reveal her true colors in fits and starts,

nevertheless, she displays skittishness,

when sun kissed "Radiance"

(the closest equivalent would be Aglaea

from Greek mythology,

one of the Charites (Graces)

associated with radiant beauty and festive splendor)

dearly fawns upon her,

though as temperatures tick

(tok like a byte dance) upwards,

a preponderant panoply and splash of color

will soon highlight, predominate, and x ist

showcasing the splendiferous,

odiferous, and luminiferous latent potential

conceded courtesy mother nature "Gaia"

housing the pent up

locked energy once dormant

under the frozen terrestrial surface

emergent after celestial seasonal thaw,

which comes trumpeting

and marching when the hills alive

with the sound of music,

where in months to elapse

topiary will come to life

once nondescript hedge rows

sculpted into ornamental animal

via botanical artist wielding

pruning shears and chainsaw

carved, limned and sculpted

with wrist a cratic wrought voila uber

prestidigitation head turning

botanical picturesque Sun

kist animals at an exhibition

transformed miraculously via

Te Deum divine fist bumping,

whence realistic fauna burst

alive with an explosion

of colorful twist and shout of foliage,

where scalloped superfluous,

incredulous, and anomalous

banana rama manna for naturalist

deciduous detritus capacious

carpet boar animation punk

chew waits groundswell.

Liszt ghost would arise from the

grave to produce magnum opus

without a beat missed such

shrubbery mimicking likeness

sans glistening fleshy sin

yew, and gist about ready

to become bone a fide

(green behind ears) thriving vox populist,

per species and genus

wrought thrashing into birth

as delicate craftsman promised

to imbue life, liberty

and pursuit of happiness whittling away

leavings, thus did exist

the nascent then omnipresent visible

entity emerging from cocoon,

an herbalist metamorphosed

from the imagination

of a skilled, practiced and mentalist

conniver viz extracting

the initially obscure blessed beast,

where with august magic

wielding tools of this specialty vis

a vis bringing breathing

manifest destiny ala Pinocchio (trans

formed from wood to flesh),

whereby finest dexterous

chiseling blistering hands

baffle onlookers as coterie of

topiary harvest breathes

mind bogglingly astoundingly

authentic rooted ready

to frolic in grass menagerie,

a gamesome group of linkedin live progeny,

the Michelangelo of dirtiest canvass,

an earthen tabula rasa of sorts,

where application threshing

re: electric cool laid ahs hid

test brings out chlorophyll

doppelganger green hued key luster

incorporating a webbed, wide world

buzzfeeding with a host of organisms

avast vernal renascence

blooming forth when optimal

environmental conditions met

oblivious to whether Gregorian Calendar

indicates the start date

(about twelve weeks after

the northern hemisphere

subjected to hiemal, hibernal,

winterish, or bruma weather)

ecstatic regarding and regaling

March madness Rite of Spring,

when the sun crosses the celestial equator

in a northerly direction,

marking the prime meridian of right ascension

heralding flickering, snapchatting

and twittering Firebird Suite

witnessed amidst flora busting out all over

in all her morning glory

concurrent resultant boom

courtesy the winds of March

whooshing in newlife budding forth

dispersing seeds of life and white lily,

whereby creationists attribute

videre licet pollinators of Eden

given special dispensation, license,

and tithing with gumption

to propagate at the expense

of annihilation, discrimination,

hybridization, marginalization, sanctification,

(and exert dominion - domination

over all creatures great and small,

all things bright and beautiful, and

all things wise and wonderful,

which mandate to be fruitful and multiply)

taken to heart and bestowed,

allotted especial sanctity

to human life reproduction

dogmatic, idiomatic, osmatic

deeds categorically to beget

in obeisance to supposed sacred text

bamboozling, extolling, and foretelling gamut

of various and sundry

diverse creeds, misfit nationalities,

and tribes of man/womankind,

where taint any chance

civilization and their discontents

also known as Homo sapiens will endure

raining ruination upon planet Earth,

where heirs and heiresses

temporarily obscured by

obscenely offensive musky men trumpeting

proclamation ejaculation.