MYO quest (1-7)

5) 213 words

Insurmountable test of mental strength, that's how it feels to try and resist the chocolate package in front of them. They're born from sweet things, their sweetness embedded into their own being, the core of their existence, and yet they're trying to resist the temptation brought to them by their enemies. Is it fair to call their creator their enemy? Is it fair to call the colorful bao, the "friend", the bao who tried to cook and managed to create a whole bao life out of thin air, is it fair to call them their enemy? Is it just the whimsical personality, the same personality that newborns all have, that make it so hard to resist? Will they find peace in the wait? Will they succumb to their mortal desires? Is eating a single chocolate piece such an egregious sin? Does it deserve such an awful punishment, worth of the mortal suffering they are self inflicting by not eating it? 

Is there even a point of all this overthinking? Were they even told to not eat the chocolate, or is their body that is rejecting the thought of eating the chocolate?

Their brain is spiraling in ways a newborn can't know how to handle, and that's how their creator finds them hours later.

7) 239 words

They bring their hand towards the side table, the bed sheet already on their legs, and reach for the diary they've started keeping since they've come to term with their existence. They start reading it, as they usually do, from the first page. It is jarring to read, the first pages a mixture of incoherent words mixed with drawings of food, sketches of baos that came to visit them, names written first as sound then as letters they can now read. It's unsettling, the growth they've undergone in only a couple of days, and yet they feel as they have a purpose to fulfill, a reason they've come to existence, a dream they should follow. Their past life, the one that existed before they opened their eyes on the floor, green goop all over them and a fire so high it should have burned the house down, is slowly slipping through their paw pads, like sand who doesn't belong in the palm of a hand. The past belongs to someone else, and the future, the same as the air we breathe, is what belongs to their hand now. 

As sand slipping through the fingers even as the fist is closed to grasp it, so they wish to do with this diary, grasp at every little grain of sand before it's too late.

Before they are forced to live in the present, they wish to grasp the past once again.