In response to John Holton’s This Week’s Writer Workshop Prompt January 20, 2026
Here are this week’s prompts:
1. Write a post inspired by the word resident.
2. Write a post in exactly eleven (11) sentences.
3. Write a story that starts with the line “Sometimes, all you need to do is completely make an ass of yourself and laugh it off to realize that life isn’t so bad after all.”
4. If it was possible to transplant your brain to stay alive for another 100 years, would you?
5. What’s something that when you were learning it, you thought you’d never use it, but in reality, you ended up using it a lot?
6. What is your opinion on tattoos?
The 100-Year Warranty on Consciousness
Let’s parable before the paperwork…
Once upon a time, in a village that had outlived its own memories, there lived a man named Iru who was famous for two things – his brilliant mind and his refusal to update his phone.
One day, a caravan of scientists rolled in, wearing white coats and the smiles of people who say “This won’t hurt much.” They announced a miracle.
“We can transplant your brain,” they declared, “into a fresh, sturdy body. You’ll live another hundred years.”
Iru asked one question.
“Does the new body come with my old mother’s laugh?”
The scientists blinked.
“Well… no. But it has excellent knees.”
Iru smiled kindly, declined politely, and went back to sitting under his banyan tree, talking to ghosts only he could see.
The villagers called him foolish.
The banyan tree called him wise.
Now, let’s get serious. Briefly first, then not at all.
If it were possible to transplant your brain and stay alive for another 100 years, would you?
Short answer: No.
Long answer: Absolutely not, and please stop asking before my soul files a restraining order.
Let’s review the brochure they won’t show you.
1. Pain: now available in extended director’s cut
Pain is not a one-time installation fee. It’s a subscription service.
Your knees already send you threatening emails when you climb stairs. Your back holds grudges from 2007. And we’re supposed to believe that a century long extension will somehow reduce discomfort?
This isn’t immortality.
This is longevity with plot fatigue.
Pain doesn’t plateau. It upgrades. It learns. It adds new features.
By year 87, you won’t be saying, “I think, therefore I am.”
You’ll be saying, “I ache, therefore I wish I weren’t.”
2. Love has an expiration date. Bodies don’t warn you.
Let’s be honest about the real horror.
It’s not the surgery. It’s the empty chairs.
Every hundred-year extension is a slow motion exit of everyone you loved. Parents. Partners. Friends. The people who knew your jokes before you finished them.
Eventually, memory becomes a mausoleum.
You don’t “live longer.” You outlive meaning.
You’re not immortal, you’re archived.
A walking museum exhibit titled…
“People Who Once Had Someone Waiting for Them.”
At some point, existence becomes living entirely in your head, replaying moments that no longer have witnesses.
And memory, without shared presence, is just loneliness with subtitles.
3. The Terms & Conditions (written by Satan’s legal team)
No one talks about this, but brain transplants would absolutely come with Terms & Conditions.
Somewhere on page 43, paragraph 6, in font size 0.5:
Your thoughts may be monitored for “quality assurance.”
Memories may be backed up to the cloud (cloud not included).
You consent to personality drift, emotional buffering, and occasional existential pop-ups.
Refunds not available if you regret consciousness.
Also, let’s not pretend capitalism will miss this opportunity.
Want to feel joy? That’s premium.
Nostalgia? Seasonal add-on.
Silence in your own mind? Sorry, that feature has been discontinued.
Immortality won’t be spiritual.
It will be subscription-based.
So, what’s the point, really?
A longer life doesn’t automatically mean a deeper one.
A hundred extra years won’t add meaning if the present moment is already underlived. Stretching time doesn’t stretch love. Extending consciousness doesn’t extend connection.
Mortality isn’t a bug. It’s the editor. Death gives life urgency. Endings give moments weight.
Knowing it ends is precisely why it matters.
Here’s a quiet, inconvenient truth…
We don’t fear dying. We fear not having lived enough before the credits roll.
And no amount of neural transplantation can fix a life that postponed joy, presence, and love for “someday.”
So no, I don’t want another hundred years in a newer shell.
I want this moment, felt fully, loved deeply, finished honestly.
Because a life well-lived doesn’t need an extension.
It needs attention.
© Rohini 2009–2025.
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Pieces Of My Heart 