88.8 MHz – Philosophy United Radio
Your favorite broadcast from the belly of the beast...
> Murphy: January 4th, 2000. 6:11 PM. A day without ambition, a breath without pressure. Could it be enough to be alive and nothing more?
Ainz-sama: Transmission 5 – "To-Breathe." What if joy was not found in conquest, but in quiet?
Guest Voices
Jean-Paul Sartre: "Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself."
An Ark Built by Tired Hands: "I carried more than just animals."
Icarus: "The sun was never the problem. It was the voice that said 'fly higher.'"
A Silent Mirror: "He looked, and for once, did not flinch."
---
He sat where the sun could touch his skin.
Not where it burned,
Not where it punished,
But where it simply rested
Like a mother's hand pressed to a sleeping child's back.
The courtyard hummed with life—
Goats somewhere chewing their fate,
Crows writing sermons in the sky,
And the slow sigh of the tubewell as it coughed up survival.
But none of that touched him.
---
What did the world have to offer?
He wondered this without malice.
Without irony.
Without even a tone.
Just the question.
Hung before him like a riddle God whispered too softly.
---
The sea?
He had never touched it, even when he died next to it.
The stars?
Too many nights, he'd stared at them with cracked lips and an empty stomach,
Wishing they would fall just to end the performance.
Riches?
What coin could buy back a childhood?
What note could pay for the humiliation of begging your father to eat one banana yourself?
Luxury?
He had seen it.
From afar.
In billboards, in tinted windows, in televisions behind glass showroom doors.
He had never entered.
Feasts?
There had been weeks he forgot what taste felt like.
---
So what now?
He had no plan.
Only breath.
And peace.
And a body that worked.
And food that waited.
And two faces—wrinkled, calloused, weathered—who asked nothing of him except to stay.
Wasn't that enough?
---
He felt nothing heroic.
No cape.
No mission.
No justice.
Just a hunger.
Not for food.
But for the feeling he had last night
When no one shouted.
When no one cursed.
When no one dragged him out by the collar to answer for a debt he didn't make.
---
And so he sat.
He let the day pass through him.
Like water through cloth.
He stared at the horizon.
Not to measure it,
Not to own it,
But to watch it exist.
Like he now did.
---
His fingers gripped the edge of the charpai.
Not in fear.
But to remind himself: this is real.
This quiet.
This silence.
This second chance.
---
He would not trust.
Not gods,
Not books,
Not beards,
Not banners.
He had been born under all of them,
And none came to save him.
He would not believe.
Not in nations,
Not in customs,
Not in fates carved by names he could not pronounce.
He would not let any hand write on his back again.
Not even if it promised paradise.
---
This life was a page.
Not blank.
But cleared.
Not new.
But clean.
And the ink he'd use now would be his own.
No more debts.
No more waiting.
No more pleasing.
---
The world had taken from him.
Mocked him.
Used him.
And tossed him.
And still—he tipped it.
With his breath.
With his death.
With his last cry in the dust of a Karachi gutter,
Under the sun that never once asked how old he was.
---
This life?
This one was his.
And for now—
Only two people would be allowed to share it.
Two elders.
Two guardians.
Two weathered souls who offered him not meaning,
But space.
That would be enough.
That would be everything.
---
Icarus: "Maybe this time... he'll fly just high enough to see the sea,
and then land."