Please buy the original track and support the artists. 

The Crickets Have Arthritis
By Shane Koyczan

it doesn’t matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting.
it doesn’t matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped, like a man whose faith tells him:
gods hands are big enough to catch an airplane

or a world,

doesn’t matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death,
or that every breath was either hard labor or hard time,
or that I’m either always too hot or too cold
it doesn’t matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pajamas,
and he’s nine years old

His name is Louis

and I don’t have to ask what he’s got, the bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The Gameboy and feather pillow booms like, they’re trying to make him feel at home ‘cuase he’s gonna be here a while

I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
so I hold my breath
cuase I’m thinking any minute now he’s gonna call me on it
I hold my breath
cuase I’m scared of a fifty seven pound boy hooked to a machine, becuase he’s been watching me, and maybe I’ve got him pegged all wrong, like

maybe he’s bionic or some shit.
so I look away.

like I just made eye contact with a gang member who’s got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he’s gonna give me my life back he minute I’ve got something to trade, I damn near pull out my pack and say

Cigarette?

but my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all about show and tell. he’s got everything from a shot gun shell to a crows foot and he can put them all in context like:

See, this is from a shooting range and

see, this is from a weird girl

I watch his hands curl around a cuff link and a tie tack and realize that every nick knack is a treasure and every treasure’s got a story and every time I think I can’t handle more he hits me with another story. says:

See, this is from my father. see, this is from my brother. see, this is from that weird girl. see this is from my mother. it took me two days to figure out that

that weird girl, is his sister.

took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her.

they visit every day and stay well passed visiting hours. because for them that term doesn’t apply. but when they do leave Louis and I are left alone and he says the worst part about being sick is you get all the free ice cream you ask for. and he says the worst part about that is realizing that there’s

nothing more they can do for you. he says:

Ice Cream can’t make every thing ok.

and there’s no easy way of asking and I already know what he’s gonna say, but maybe he just needs to say it so I ask him any way. Are you scared? Louis doesn’t even lower his voice when he says

Fuck yeah.

I listen to a nine year old boy say the word Fuck, like he was a thirty year old man with a nose bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he’s got a right to it and if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, I want to teach him to swear like the devil was sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad but before I can forget that Louis is nine years old he says:

please don’t tell my dad.

he asks me if I believe in angels,

and before I realize I don’t have the heart to tell him, I tell him Not lately, and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. but he doesn’t know how to, so he never does.

Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before god gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was.

He never greets me with silence. only smiles. and a patience I’ve never seen in someone who knows they’re dying. and I’m trying so hard not to remind him, I’ll be out of here in a couple of days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. and he’ll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow, I’ve been with him for five days and all I really know is Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground, almost as if he was the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say that its gravity that’s been getting us down. but the truth is

there’s not enough miracles to go around kid,

and there’s too many people petitioning god for the winning lotto ticket. and for every answered prayer there’s a cricket with arthritis, and the only reason we can’t find answers is the search party didn’t invite us, and Louis right now the crickets have arthritis

so there is no music.

no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if we bent halo’s into melodies that could keep rhythm with the way our hearts beat.
so we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying nine year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. we must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations then let our lives

echo, and grow
echo, and grow
echo, and grow

Grow distant.

grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go we don’t always get a reply. but I swear to whatever god I can find in the time I have left I’m gonna remember you kid. gonna tell your story as often as every story you told me, and every time I tell it I’ll say see,

there’s bravery in this world

there’s 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we take has to be given back, a nine year old boy taught me that.

so hold your breath. the same way you’d hold a pen when writing thank you letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold.
then let it go. as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back
let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex

the black eye will be worth it.

because what is your night worth without a story to tell, and why wield a word like worth if you’ve got nothing to sell. people drop pennies down a wishing well as if the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. but if you’ve got expectations expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of the hard work, hang in, hold on mentality, like I accept any challenge so challenge me
like

I’ve brought a knife to this gun fight, but other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit I’ve had practice.

Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found the prize inside because we never lied to ourselves, never told ourselves it would be easy or undemanding.
so we sing in our own vibration and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands on gods hands

take the time to catch you

so that even if god doesn’t, it wasn’t because we didn’t try.

I don’t often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said this is for you,

I half expected him to say

See, this is the first one I grew.


The Crickets Have Arthritis ( Shane Koyczan )

Gaming guru, anime addict, furry enthusiast - I dance in pixelated realms and chase dreams

/ -.--.--. I AM LIVING PROOF  -- . .  -- . -- .. --  I AM LIVING PROOF -- . .  -- . -- .. --  I AM LIVING PROOF

Manifesto

We Declare:

    That the suffering in Gaza is not a distant conflict but a wound in the conscience of humanity.

    That silence and political games by so-called Western defenders of democracy are betrayal incarnate.

    That art, music, and truth must tear through walls of apathy, breaking chains with sound and spirit.

    That to remain silent is to support the erasure of life itself.

    That we rise—voices united, hearts aflame—to amplify those crushed under siege, to shatter the walls of oppression.

    That every beat, every echo, every lyric becomes a rebellion against forgetting.

    That through collective awakening, we reclaim not just Gaza’s future but the soul of humanity.

/ -- . .  -- . -- .. --  I AM LIVING PROOF

/ : fictionalive, August 16, 2025 - 4:21 pm

/
Disclaimer: Ladies and gentlemen, and anyone who needs a special mention, I'm throwing caution to the wind and speaking out about this chaos. I'm going live, ready or not. So, sit back, relax, and try to enjoy - it's all for your own good.
/
/ -- . .  -- . -- .. --  I AM LIVING PROOF
/
//
"NOTHING UNDER THE SUN IS NOT PART OF CREATION, NOR IS IT NOT CREATION ITSELF—IT'S ONLY WHAT YOU MAKE IT. NO JUDGES, NO DIVIDES—UNITY." 
/
/ : fictionalive, July 30 - 11:11 am
/
//
For This Is The Voyage, The Legend, The Song – Where We Belong
/
/ Keep shining
/
"NOTHING UNDER THE SUN IS NOT PART OF CREATION, NOR IS IT NOT CREATION ITSELF—IT'S ONLY WHAT YOU MAKE IT. NO JUDGES, NO DIVIDES—UNITY."

1. Philosophical and Metaphysical Context

This phrase operates on a profound metaphysical premise rooted in ancient and modern spiritual thought: the idea that everything within existence ("under the sun") is inherently part of creation, yet simultaneously defies a simple binary of "creation" and "non-creation." The double negation — “is not not part” and “is not not creation” — serves as a dialectical device emphasizing paradox rather than straightforward affirmation or denial.

Nothing exists outside creation’s domain. All that "is" is both a part and a reflection of the creative whole — but perhaps creation is not a static “thing.”

It touches on panentheism or even non-dualism, suggesting creation transcends our binary modes of thought.

In this sense, the phrase challenges rigid ontologies. It rejects compartmentalization — what we consider ‘created’ vs. ‘uncreated’ is a false dichotomy.

2. Existential and Constructivist Overtones

The clause “It’s only what you make it” signifies a turn from metaphysical absolutes to personal agency and interpretation.

Creation is not a fixed category but a creative, subjective, and participatory process.

Reality is texturized by human meaning-making — your perception, actions, and judgments shape what ‘is.’

This brings in vibes of existentialism and constructivism, affirming our power and responsibility in shaping the world and imbuing it with meaning.

3. The Ethics of Judgment and Division

“No judges, no divides” strikes a moral and social chord:

It calls for radical acceptance — no external or internal authority imposes judgment.

It opposes division, sectarianism, or exclusion based on arbitrary or prejudiced distinctions.
This has echoes of universalist humanism and inclusive ethics, a plea for unity beyond fractured identities, labels, or separations.

4. Final Summation: Unity as a Creational Ethos

The closing refrain “UNITY” serves as the conceptual apex:
Unity is not merely a formal condition but an existential and creational ethos, holding the paradoxical unity of all existence despite apparent differences or judgments.
It is a call to embrace multiplicity without fragmentation — wholeness that contains diversity.

Style and Rhetoric

Paradox and Double Negatives: The use of double negatives (“not not”) is daring and poetic, evoking the style of Zen koans or 
Hegelian dialectics — prompting reflection rather than offering a direct statement. It challenges the reader to dwell in ambiguity and complexity.

Capitalization and Punctuation: The em dash creates dramatic pauses, underscoring the key thematic shifts; the capitalized “UNITY” acts as a powerful, summative slogan or mantra.

Economy of Words: Despite its complexity, the phrase remains succinct, poetic, and emphatic—a hallmark of impactful philosophical proclamations.

Cultural & Literary Resonances

Biblical Allusions: “Under the sun” recalls the Book of Ecclesiastes, with its contemplations on the nature of existence. This embeds the phrase within a long tradition of existential inquiry.

Contemporary Spirituality: The phrase resonates with New Age and postmodern spiritual ideas emphasizing non-duality, co-creation, and global unity.

Political and Social Dimensions: In a world segmented by ideologies and conflicts, “no judges, no divides” can serve as a subtle political manifesto for peace and acceptance.

The Crickets Have Arthritis ( Shane Koyczan )

Gohers Way