Today, it is the 12th of December; exactly one month from my last formal exam. But, there is a feeling inside, and somehow I find myself here, stagnant, as I dwadle whilst waiting for the little things to happen all around me. And, let's ponder about life.
Beliefs? Life and death; like day and night, they are absolute and that's that. I believe in my actions. I believe in my voice. And before one may think that I merely believe in myself, you are to be corrected. I do not believe in myself. Considering myself and my own mind, I suppose my greatest fear is not that I am inadequate. The deep fear that we are powerful beyond measure is indeed fearful. It is our light, not our darkness, that tiny speckle of light present in enclosed darkness, that I think most frightens me. Playing small does not serve the world, simply because there is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do, and our parents encourae us to do so. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. This fear, sometimes it pushes me, other times it gets the best of me; it is so deep that I believe this is the reason how people fall. And as we let our own lights shine as our fears encroach within us, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. There, perhaps I can have a guess that, as we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others? And what is it that is capable of that? A higher order that must be present. Basing this on animalistic behaviours, all creatures want to believe in something bigger them themselves. They cannot live without blind obedience, as they must follow something or someone. And to escape the pressure of that trust, those in whom faith is placed in turn look for someone higher them themselves. And then those people in turn look for someone even stronger. That is how all kings are born. That is how all gods are born. And looking back on history, they all still abide to mankind. Because from this point onward, the power of the god they foolishly placed their faith in will be truly witnessed firt hand. I believe that these gods, the ones that we place faith into; we give ourselves no choice but to believe in them because we are beneath them.
That is my aspect of looking at such matters.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
The ocean
It's funny. We've always thought that it would never happen. Easy to make, these promises. Hard to fufill. Within a matter of minutes, it was all over. And yet we have let go, because "sorry" is just simply a word. What is it supposed to mean exactly? Why is it that down this path, some people falter and aren't given the choice to continue, whilst others have no choice but to ditch?
*See, there's two lunatics who've just excaped from their asylum. They want to escape, apparantly. They get on to the roof successfully, and they see a narrow gap. The gap; it stretches away in the moonlight, stretching away towards freedom. One of the guys, he jumps across without any problem. But the second guy, he didn't dare to make the leap because he's afraid of falling. So the first guy has an idea "Hey! I have a torch with me! I'll just shine it across the gap so you can walk along the beam and join me!" But then the second guy shakes his head and replies "What do you think I am? Crazy? You'd turn the torch off when I was half across!" *
We forgive. We forget. But in the midst of everything, I've just realized that I've never tried. Those left behind, is it justified that we forget them and move on? Is that what happens in the end; we just become broken memories of those around us? Undoubtedly, maybe this is what is supposed to happen as part of our journey; we scatter and carve our own paths independantly. All alone; we have lost so much for that, as the pieces of our memories slowly decay and we forget. Will we ever find our paths? This is why we reach out, always wanting to know; this curiousity is part of us, but we never seem to think the right questions. In the end, does somebody call our name, come to us, as we break into pieces?
*Maybe something will happen that will never happen or that's never happened before. Is that what brings us home?* If this is what a heart is, then it must be the heart that causes us such pain. It is because of the heart, that "goodbye, tranquility" must be said.
*See, there's two lunatics who've just excaped from their asylum. They want to escape, apparantly. They get on to the roof successfully, and they see a narrow gap. The gap; it stretches away in the moonlight, stretching away towards freedom. One of the guys, he jumps across without any problem. But the second guy, he didn't dare to make the leap because he's afraid of falling. So the first guy has an idea "Hey! I have a torch with me! I'll just shine it across the gap so you can walk along the beam and join me!" But then the second guy shakes his head and replies "What do you think I am? Crazy? You'd turn the torch off when I was half across!" *
We forgive. We forget. But in the midst of everything, I've just realized that I've never tried. Those left behind, is it justified that we forget them and move on? Is that what happens in the end; we just become broken memories of those around us? Undoubtedly, maybe this is what is supposed to happen as part of our journey; we scatter and carve our own paths independantly. All alone; we have lost so much for that, as the pieces of our memories slowly decay and we forget. Will we ever find our paths? This is why we reach out, always wanting to know; this curiousity is part of us, but we never seem to think the right questions. In the end, does somebody call our name, come to us, as we break into pieces?
*Maybe something will happen that will never happen or that's never happened before. Is that what brings us home?* If this is what a heart is, then it must be the heart that causes us such pain. It is because of the heart, that "goodbye, tranquility" must be said.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
practice conflict piece
English October test tomorrow, revision's completely unfinished. I've only covered 1 theme across 4 mindmaps in the last two nights for 1984, and done one practice piece for the context. I still have to re-read "The Crucible" for more quotes to start my piece better tomorrow; I took some lines from my previous stories to start this imaginative piece off:
Conflict brings out unexpected qualities in people.
17th July, 2010
My body ached, pleading for recovery from last night, and yet that did not even portray the despair in my heart. The pillow was drenched with grief; the bed sheets ruffled with agony, the setting of the light-deprived apartment had said it all. Why did I go? Why did I leave? And as these thoughts continued to dwindle in my depressed mind, I began to wonder if I was sane at all. “What happened to the American dream?” was asked on the news repeatedly as the end began. Humanity’s situation was dire; people wanted to better and genetic technologies improved to improve us humans. Discrimination soon rose as some governments wanted hygiene within races, and as people born “naturally” had nowhere to lead in life. Then we came, to help humanity pull through. We came, and now through the Pure Act we were told to be not needed. Imagine telling a fighting man that war was over, that there was to be no more fighting. I do what I do because I am compelled to do so, unlike the others who have gone. They were soft. Despite advancing in the field of eugenics, the people have abused it and new identities can be bought. Like heathen, they fight and squabble between themselves; quarrels over land could be “solved” as one could assume another person’s identity and kill someone else, then alter one’s appearances again. Now we, as the public, cannot depend on the “culprit” to accuse himself, and so in all cases the “witness” is always correct, their names being holy. Evidence is never found because by the time evidence is found and can be presented, the “witness” is gone with a new identity. With regards to the “victims”, there is no place for heroes since disputes over murders and other crimes are now “solved”. As a businessman, trust and one’s name is extremely important. That is why I am compelled to do good, a person is either good or bad; there is no road between. The other “heroes” have quit, but I, Joses by day, Boomaker by night, will be the high judge of this world that we live in, for God is dead in today’s world.
19th July, 2010
Today, a woman by the name of Elizabeth died; his blood was found splattered inside his house, yet no body is found. As always, a witness surfaced-Putnam, who supposedly saw his neighbour Parris bury a suspicious bag in his backyard. How typical. Tonight, we will judge Putnam. There is no point in making him confess; he may just acquire a new identity and he will then be anonymous. Tonight, I will be a sinner for the greater good of justice.
Having found Putnam’s residential area, I obtained unwanted entrance into his house. There is a dog outside, I hear its growls. There are many meat cleavers in Putnam’s house, unusual for a man of forty. No blood, so no evidence found yet. Stepping out of the kitchen into the next room, I see the dog. It is an absolute beast, with an oddly large bone in its mouth. My blood turns cold, cold enough to freeze beer. The bone, is the femur of the human body. It is easily distinguished by its large length and its ball-joint connector for our knees. The dog had it in its mouth. I took one of Putnam’s meat cleavers, and found some meat in his kitchen. Holding one [meat cleaver and meat] in each hand, I went into the dog’s territory. His ears pricked up. I offered it the meat. It came, and the meat cleaver went down, the impact of metal hitting its skull running up my right arm. This Putnam, I will crush him utterly when he shows his face. But my work is done tonight; I know Putnam is guilty. Justice will prevail one day, and I will give him a chance, for his sin is deep. Yet somehow I know he will disappear, only to reappear when I find him. In this world, whenever one does something, someone down there knows. Always.
22nd July, 2010
Putnam is gone as expected. Nonetheless, someone knows and I have acquired his new address, with his new name “Thomas”. Tonight, I will go to his place. He will go to hell tonight.
26th July, 2010
This is madness. I was framed all along, and now I am in a jail cell. With today’s technologies, my diary has been hidden as a microchip in my mouth. These heathen, they have condemned me to death, guilty of the murder of countless murderers, rapists-sinners. Private vengeance is no more; by my oath to Heaven, a fire burns. It is burning, I can see the boots of Lucifer and his filthy face. God damns my kind, and I will burn, burn with wheels of fire inside. The world is dying of rabies, and this is the best I can do-wipe flickering flecks of spit off its lips? God is dead, and I will take my sins with me, down into my pit. I will not “confess”, for what I did was upright and good. I will do what I do, and let none be my judge. There be no higher judge under Heaven than God, and I will go like a saint. Boomaker will die, doing what is good to the end.
After Boomaker’s death, crime still roamed the streets. The world realized that it needed heroes, and the Pure Act was overturned. At least, his death counted for something, like a saint.
Conflict brings out unexpected qualities in people.
17th July, 2010
My body ached, pleading for recovery from last night, and yet that did not even portray the despair in my heart. The pillow was drenched with grief; the bed sheets ruffled with agony, the setting of the light-deprived apartment had said it all. Why did I go? Why did I leave? And as these thoughts continued to dwindle in my depressed mind, I began to wonder if I was sane at all. “What happened to the American dream?” was asked on the news repeatedly as the end began. Humanity’s situation was dire; people wanted to better and genetic technologies improved to improve us humans. Discrimination soon rose as some governments wanted hygiene within races, and as people born “naturally” had nowhere to lead in life. Then we came, to help humanity pull through. We came, and now through the Pure Act we were told to be not needed. Imagine telling a fighting man that war was over, that there was to be no more fighting. I do what I do because I am compelled to do so, unlike the others who have gone. They were soft. Despite advancing in the field of eugenics, the people have abused it and new identities can be bought. Like heathen, they fight and squabble between themselves; quarrels over land could be “solved” as one could assume another person’s identity and kill someone else, then alter one’s appearances again. Now we, as the public, cannot depend on the “culprit” to accuse himself, and so in all cases the “witness” is always correct, their names being holy. Evidence is never found because by the time evidence is found and can be presented, the “witness” is gone with a new identity. With regards to the “victims”, there is no place for heroes since disputes over murders and other crimes are now “solved”. As a businessman, trust and one’s name is extremely important. That is why I am compelled to do good, a person is either good or bad; there is no road between. The other “heroes” have quit, but I, Joses by day, Boomaker by night, will be the high judge of this world that we live in, for God is dead in today’s world.
19th July, 2010
Today, a woman by the name of Elizabeth died; his blood was found splattered inside his house, yet no body is found. As always, a witness surfaced-Putnam, who supposedly saw his neighbour Parris bury a suspicious bag in his backyard. How typical. Tonight, we will judge Putnam. There is no point in making him confess; he may just acquire a new identity and he will then be anonymous. Tonight, I will be a sinner for the greater good of justice.
Having found Putnam’s residential area, I obtained unwanted entrance into his house. There is a dog outside, I hear its growls. There are many meat cleavers in Putnam’s house, unusual for a man of forty. No blood, so no evidence found yet. Stepping out of the kitchen into the next room, I see the dog. It is an absolute beast, with an oddly large bone in its mouth. My blood turns cold, cold enough to freeze beer. The bone, is the femur of the human body. It is easily distinguished by its large length and its ball-joint connector for our knees. The dog had it in its mouth. I took one of Putnam’s meat cleavers, and found some meat in his kitchen. Holding one [meat cleaver and meat] in each hand, I went into the dog’s territory. His ears pricked up. I offered it the meat. It came, and the meat cleaver went down, the impact of metal hitting its skull running up my right arm. This Putnam, I will crush him utterly when he shows his face. But my work is done tonight; I know Putnam is guilty. Justice will prevail one day, and I will give him a chance, for his sin is deep. Yet somehow I know he will disappear, only to reappear when I find him. In this world, whenever one does something, someone down there knows. Always.
22nd July, 2010
Putnam is gone as expected. Nonetheless, someone knows and I have acquired his new address, with his new name “Thomas”. Tonight, I will go to his place. He will go to hell tonight.
26th July, 2010
This is madness. I was framed all along, and now I am in a jail cell. With today’s technologies, my diary has been hidden as a microchip in my mouth. These heathen, they have condemned me to death, guilty of the murder of countless murderers, rapists-sinners. Private vengeance is no more; by my oath to Heaven, a fire burns. It is burning, I can see the boots of Lucifer and his filthy face. God damns my kind, and I will burn, burn with wheels of fire inside. The world is dying of rabies, and this is the best I can do-wipe flickering flecks of spit off its lips? God is dead, and I will take my sins with me, down into my pit. I will not “confess”, for what I did was upright and good. I will do what I do, and let none be my judge. There be no higher judge under Heaven than God, and I will go like a saint. Boomaker will die, doing what is good to the end.
After Boomaker’s death, crime still roamed the streets. The world realized that it needed heroes, and the Pure Act was overturned. At least, his death counted for something, like a saint.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Emoticon
21.8.2009
To this date, this is the saddest and most defining moment of my life. One week before my birthday, a friend of five years passed on. What can I say? What can I feel? I guess I'm trying to get some closure from this, and I hope nobody reads this; nobody in the sense that I'm not blindly going into the gallows. It is in these times that our true natures cannot be hidden, and people will notice. What can I say, I tried my best to only let a bit of emotion show, for a brief period of time. Undoubtedly this doesn't solve anything; it is like treating the wound but not the disease. Pure, unadulterated, unconscious, the feeling of being lost is overwhelming. One cannot possibly understand the feeling of lost until something precious is lost. It is as though that this is one of life's tests; testing us how we react, testing like it always does. Nevertheless some around me felt it as well; though I tried to hide it it was like a crack in a fortress-no crack in a fortress may be accounted insignificant. As time passed on, as the days passed, trying to hide it is easier as one runs away from the true feeling of being lost. Internally lost, it is this that begins to define us to be human. Selfish like the humans we are, we try to hold on to everything we value, yet do we value what others value? It can thus be said that from such events, we well and truly learn what friends and friendship really means. The feeling of lost-not knowing what to do, not knowing how to react, not knowing why it was him, the feeling of not knowing leads us off the path of life and we become lost, almost locking up our hearts, supressing everything that we live for. The vigour of life, happiness, is lost. Without it, we are mere slaves to ourselves, dragging ourselves through life as time progresses. Indeed, time. Time moves on, it is ever-changing and through the passing of such times we may truly find ourselves empty. The emptiness is what makes us lost; as life empties itself we aimlessly wander through life. But it is during these times where we may find the key to our heart's locks. Humour is not happiness, and happiness is not humour, yet there are those that we meet, those that meet us. Through the countless generations, the billions of humans, not to forget the chance of meeting them, they are the kind of people who pull us back to reality unknowingly. Unwittingly, they may or may not be friends, yet it is the feeling that there are things to be lived for, and such people are to be remembered forever, whether or not time divides us.
To this date, this is the saddest and most defining moment of my life. One week before my birthday, a friend of five years passed on. What can I say? What can I feel? I guess I'm trying to get some closure from this, and I hope nobody reads this; nobody in the sense that I'm not blindly going into the gallows. It is in these times that our true natures cannot be hidden, and people will notice. What can I say, I tried my best to only let a bit of emotion show, for a brief period of time. Undoubtedly this doesn't solve anything; it is like treating the wound but not the disease. Pure, unadulterated, unconscious, the feeling of being lost is overwhelming. One cannot possibly understand the feeling of lost until something precious is lost. It is as though that this is one of life's tests; testing us how we react, testing like it always does. Nevertheless some around me felt it as well; though I tried to hide it it was like a crack in a fortress-no crack in a fortress may be accounted insignificant. As time passed on, as the days passed, trying to hide it is easier as one runs away from the true feeling of being lost. Internally lost, it is this that begins to define us to be human. Selfish like the humans we are, we try to hold on to everything we value, yet do we value what others value? It can thus be said that from such events, we well and truly learn what friends and friendship really means. The feeling of lost-not knowing what to do, not knowing how to react, not knowing why it was him, the feeling of not knowing leads us off the path of life and we become lost, almost locking up our hearts, supressing everything that we live for. The vigour of life, happiness, is lost. Without it, we are mere slaves to ourselves, dragging ourselves through life as time progresses. Indeed, time. Time moves on, it is ever-changing and through the passing of such times we may truly find ourselves empty. The emptiness is what makes us lost; as life empties itself we aimlessly wander through life. But it is during these times where we may find the key to our heart's locks. Humour is not happiness, and happiness is not humour, yet there are those that we meet, those that meet us. Through the countless generations, the billions of humans, not to forget the chance of meeting them, they are the kind of people who pull us back to reality unknowingly. Unwittingly, they may or may not be friends, yet it is the feeling that there are things to be lived for, and such people are to be remembered forever, whether or not time divides us.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
"It's like a squid in love with the sky"
I had nothing to lose. Perhaps I should try spending my break on the moon. The air was lavender scented, my body rejuvenated to a healthy state. My heart was overwhelmed with joy and happiness, and all I could think of was yesterday’s romantic picnic. The scenery was picturesque, the food delectable, but more importantly, the moment was flawless. The chemistry between us was scintillating, as she outshone even the brightest of stars. She was strange, that Lana. We hardly knew who she was, yet we were invited to a party. I desperately wanted to go, just because I could.
I sat in the corner of the room, legs curled up, with my hands pulling at my hair. The sun seemed to gleam everywhere else except this corner. the situation was not good. Everybody here, at this "party", had their feedstocks hacked. Not Good. I decided that it was time to face my options. Maybe I could’ve done something to correct the situation instead of having to get an artificial feedstock. Maybe there was another way. Maybe there was no other way. Alike the zephyr that caressed me, a strong squall breezed through the corner. Marching out of the apartment with steely resolve, I sprinted over to the same street that I saw her last. There she stood, the divine angel, my saviour. Her delicate hair shimmered in sunlight, her face unrivalled by any supermodel. I rushed to her, panting in exhaustion, with my panda eyes paralysed in awe of her splendour. I try to patch things up with her, I want to question her. But then I saw. Her feedstock was hacked as well, evident by her speech patterns; short words being used.
Later on, I feel that she is clearly uncomfortable with me talking to her, but I don’t care, I have to try and make amends. I ask again but this time with a sterner voice, she looks worried now, slowly trying to move away from me. She tells me that she is expected to be somewhere in five minutes time. Why is she trying to run? Is she trying to re-enact the memories of the time we were holding hands running through the flower fields? I grasp her wrist, but she wriggles and squirms, an attempt to gather attention from civilians. I clutch even tighter now, enraged at her doings. I hear her scream that she wants to get back to her life. She doesn't know that this is her life. Her feedstock's feed efficiency clearly has some issues.
I woke up on a white bed. Looking around, there some wires connected to my feedstock. Feed efficiency at 52.3%? Not good, the regular efficiency was 98%. I relinquish my grip, and for now, all seems calm. I slowly make my way out of my bed and edge towards hers. I request for her number, explaining how I have desperately tried to stay in touch with her and how her current number isn’t valid. She refuses. In shock, I told her to think of all the good things that have happened. Time paused for a moment, as I ceased talking, open-mouthed. Did I just tell her to think of all the good things that have happened? From there, I realised that I couldn’t differentiate the real and fake memories with her. For all I could tell, none of them had actually happened, or maybe they all had. She whispered: "everything must go". My vision is blacked-out.
Though the protagonist was largely unaware of it, his feedstock had been hacked and his state of mind was rapidly collapsing, a decline that mirrors Lana's eventual recovery. In some ways, the protagonist represented what I believe we should stand for. Just as Lana does not quite die, it is never explicitly stated that it falls, though the damage, like the damage to Lana, is completely unrepairable. The world may also end as a result, with the severe damage to the health of the general population and enormous ecological disasters. Meanwhile, the protagonist, the consumer, and the image of the world is becoming is being ignored and thus the protagonist tries to connect with Lana. I am now going to leave the end as to what one may assume.
I sat in the corner of the room, legs curled up, with my hands pulling at my hair. The sun seemed to gleam everywhere else except this corner. the situation was not good. Everybody here, at this "party", had their feedstocks hacked. Not Good. I decided that it was time to face my options. Maybe I could’ve done something to correct the situation instead of having to get an artificial feedstock. Maybe there was another way. Maybe there was no other way. Alike the zephyr that caressed me, a strong squall breezed through the corner. Marching out of the apartment with steely resolve, I sprinted over to the same street that I saw her last. There she stood, the divine angel, my saviour. Her delicate hair shimmered in sunlight, her face unrivalled by any supermodel. I rushed to her, panting in exhaustion, with my panda eyes paralysed in awe of her splendour. I try to patch things up with her, I want to question her. But then I saw. Her feedstock was hacked as well, evident by her speech patterns; short words being used.
Later on, I feel that she is clearly uncomfortable with me talking to her, but I don’t care, I have to try and make amends. I ask again but this time with a sterner voice, she looks worried now, slowly trying to move away from me. She tells me that she is expected to be somewhere in five minutes time. Why is she trying to run? Is she trying to re-enact the memories of the time we were holding hands running through the flower fields? I grasp her wrist, but she wriggles and squirms, an attempt to gather attention from civilians. I clutch even tighter now, enraged at her doings. I hear her scream that she wants to get back to her life. She doesn't know that this is her life. Her feedstock's feed efficiency clearly has some issues.
I woke up on a white bed. Looking around, there some wires connected to my feedstock. Feed efficiency at 52.3%? Not good, the regular efficiency was 98%. I relinquish my grip, and for now, all seems calm. I slowly make my way out of my bed and edge towards hers. I request for her number, explaining how I have desperately tried to stay in touch with her and how her current number isn’t valid. She refuses. In shock, I told her to think of all the good things that have happened. Time paused for a moment, as I ceased talking, open-mouthed. Did I just tell her to think of all the good things that have happened? From there, I realised that I couldn’t differentiate the real and fake memories with her. For all I could tell, none of them had actually happened, or maybe they all had. She whispered: "everything must go". My vision is blacked-out.
Though the protagonist was largely unaware of it, his feedstock had been hacked and his state of mind was rapidly collapsing, a decline that mirrors Lana's eventual recovery. In some ways, the protagonist represented what I believe we should stand for. Just as Lana does not quite die, it is never explicitly stated that it falls, though the damage, like the damage to Lana, is completely unrepairable. The world may also end as a result, with the severe damage to the health of the general population and enormous ecological disasters. Meanwhile, the protagonist, the consumer, and the image of the world is becoming is being ignored and thus the protagonist tries to connect with Lana. I am now going to leave the end as to what one may assume.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Memoirs of a Memoir
Like a cup full of tears, my heart was sour. My limbs were languid; my head thudding, similar to icy hail stones pounding upon worn rooftops. My body ached, pleading for recovery, and yet that did not even portray the anguish in my heart. The pillow was drenched with grief; the bed sheets ruffled with agony, the setting of the light-deprived apartment had said it all. Why did I go? Why did I leave? And as these thoughts continued to dwindle in my depressed mind, I began to wonder if I was sane at all.
To my surprise, I saw another meaningless advertisement just outside, this time from a company named Memoirs. I saw my doctor just the night before, and he mentioned that insomnia is not a serious ailment. Today though, I am going to a support group to perhaps discover what real suffering is. The sky was grey, reflecting my gloomy mood whilst I listlessly strolled through the city square. Step by step, the jingle of Memoirs replayed in my mind, its rhythm synchronized with the walking pace. Several bystanders gawked at me, and some even had the guts to instruct me to get memory implants. Those bloody pricks, they’re all cactii, every single one of them. Yet, what they said rang true in my mind, I had nothing to lose.
The door senses my presence as I reluctantly enter into the colossal building, Memoirs. The room was eerily lit, the steel walls first to catch my sight. I took miniscule strides, constantly looking around at posters and the information brochures. The range of memory implants that could be received was vast. A man is walking up to me, he introduces himself as Fiegel. We sat down, and he could clearly see that I was nervous, just from reading my body language. I was shivering, still engulfed in melancholy. His explanation strived to comfort me; however, I was still unsure. What do I do? What was I supposed to do?
I woke up in my apartment. Walking outside towards the lift, the building suddenly shook violently and I was thrown towards the ground with great force. I don't know what went on afterwards, but I awoke, this time in Fiegel's apartment. He mentions that he found me unconscious on the ground, and demands that I owed him. To pay him back, he wanted me to hit him "as hard as possible". With sweat trickling down the sides of my head, I drew my arm back and swung. He had dodged my arm, and now his arm was approaching me. I caught his arm, and we parried. My legs wouldn’t stop shaking. My arms unwillingly trembled. If today was a bad dream, then my life had become a horrid nightmare. The high-pitched announcement echoed the hall as the fight moved on.
As time moved on and I got to know Fiegel more, I have come to realise that our bonds were tied by the mutual respect. I stormed out of Memoirs in a livid manner, knocking over anything in my reach. I glanced at the exterior of the infrastructure one last time, only to see an abhorrent reflection of myself. In fear, I shut my eyes, remembering the good times with him; the fights everyday that would escalate and then die out. Oodly enough, it was like heaven, until I opened my eyes. A malnourished figure appeared before me, with its hideous face characterized by protruding cheekbones, eye bags that sagged to its nose, and dehydrated lips. Its rib cage could easily be identified, and if it were not for the unkempt rags, people would have easily mistaken it as an anorexic caveman. To my disbelief, that was me. I barely recognized myself. My mind was in a fragile state, and the only thing that I could do, was to detest the company. Fiegel the appeared in front of me, and said: "This is me".
It was blizzard-like inside the room. The sun seemed to gleam everywhere else except my apartment. Severely distraught, I decided that it was time to face reality. Fiegel was me, except he wasn't me. Perhaps hypothetically, as I once struggled with the hatred for my job and my consumerist lifestyle, my mind began to form a new personality that was able to escape from the problems of his normal life.
The final straw came when he met Fiegel; Fiegel was truly born as a distinct personality when the narrator's unconscious desire for sleep clashed with his conscious hatred for himself. Having come to the surface, Fiegel's personality has been slowly taking over the narrator's mind, which he planned to take over completely by making the narrator's real personality more like his. The narrator's bouts of insomnia had actually been Fiegel's personality surfacing; Fiegel would be active whenever the narrator was "sleeping." This allowed Fiegel to manipulate the narrator into helping him create the "fights"; Fiegel learned recipes for creating explosives when he was in control and used this knowledge to blow up his own apartment.
It had finally come to my mind that I was my own hallucination, not Fiegel. Every cell in my body froze, as I turned to walk away. Time was passing so slowly that I could even hear the rapid heartbeats of my heart. I barged through the doors of Memoirs, bellowing in anger. Just what had gone wrong?
To my surprise, I saw another meaningless advertisement just outside, this time from a company named Memoirs. I saw my doctor just the night before, and he mentioned that insomnia is not a serious ailment. Today though, I am going to a support group to perhaps discover what real suffering is. The sky was grey, reflecting my gloomy mood whilst I listlessly strolled through the city square. Step by step, the jingle of Memoirs replayed in my mind, its rhythm synchronized with the walking pace. Several bystanders gawked at me, and some even had the guts to instruct me to get memory implants. Those bloody pricks, they’re all cactii, every single one of them. Yet, what they said rang true in my mind, I had nothing to lose.
The door senses my presence as I reluctantly enter into the colossal building, Memoirs. The room was eerily lit, the steel walls first to catch my sight. I took miniscule strides, constantly looking around at posters and the information brochures. The range of memory implants that could be received was vast. A man is walking up to me, he introduces himself as Fiegel. We sat down, and he could clearly see that I was nervous, just from reading my body language. I was shivering, still engulfed in melancholy. His explanation strived to comfort me; however, I was still unsure. What do I do? What was I supposed to do?
I woke up in my apartment. Walking outside towards the lift, the building suddenly shook violently and I was thrown towards the ground with great force. I don't know what went on afterwards, but I awoke, this time in Fiegel's apartment. He mentions that he found me unconscious on the ground, and demands that I owed him. To pay him back, he wanted me to hit him "as hard as possible". With sweat trickling down the sides of my head, I drew my arm back and swung. He had dodged my arm, and now his arm was approaching me. I caught his arm, and we parried. My legs wouldn’t stop shaking. My arms unwillingly trembled. If today was a bad dream, then my life had become a horrid nightmare. The high-pitched announcement echoed the hall as the fight moved on.
As time moved on and I got to know Fiegel more, I have come to realise that our bonds were tied by the mutual respect. I stormed out of Memoirs in a livid manner, knocking over anything in my reach. I glanced at the exterior of the infrastructure one last time, only to see an abhorrent reflection of myself. In fear, I shut my eyes, remembering the good times with him; the fights everyday that would escalate and then die out. Oodly enough, it was like heaven, until I opened my eyes. A malnourished figure appeared before me, with its hideous face characterized by protruding cheekbones, eye bags that sagged to its nose, and dehydrated lips. Its rib cage could easily be identified, and if it were not for the unkempt rags, people would have easily mistaken it as an anorexic caveman. To my disbelief, that was me. I barely recognized myself. My mind was in a fragile state, and the only thing that I could do, was to detest the company. Fiegel the appeared in front of me, and said: "This is me".
It was blizzard-like inside the room. The sun seemed to gleam everywhere else except my apartment. Severely distraught, I decided that it was time to face reality. Fiegel was me, except he wasn't me. Perhaps hypothetically, as I once struggled with the hatred for my job and my consumerist lifestyle, my mind began to form a new personality that was able to escape from the problems of his normal life.
The final straw came when he met Fiegel; Fiegel was truly born as a distinct personality when the narrator's unconscious desire for sleep clashed with his conscious hatred for himself. Having come to the surface, Fiegel's personality has been slowly taking over the narrator's mind, which he planned to take over completely by making the narrator's real personality more like his. The narrator's bouts of insomnia had actually been Fiegel's personality surfacing; Fiegel would be active whenever the narrator was "sleeping." This allowed Fiegel to manipulate the narrator into helping him create the "fights"; Fiegel learned recipes for creating explosives when he was in control and used this knowledge to blow up his own apartment.
It had finally come to my mind that I was my own hallucination, not Fiegel. Every cell in my body froze, as I turned to walk away. Time was passing so slowly that I could even hear the rapid heartbeats of my heart. I barged through the doors of Memoirs, bellowing in anger. Just what had gone wrong?
******************
At the waiting room of Memoirs:
Consultant 1: “Hey nice job on the confrontation conflict, I thought we had nearly lost him there.”
Memory Specialist: “Those losers always fall for the insane type.”
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
A black sheep walks into a baa....?
Currently I'm taking down some questions I really would like to know the answers of:
*Why isn't phonetic spelled the way it sounds?
*Why do we drive on parkways and park on driveways?
*How does the guy who drives the snowplow get to work in the mornings?
*Why are cigarettes sold in gas stations when smoking is prohibited there?
*What if there were no hypothetical situations?
*Why does your nose run and your feet smell?
*Why is it that if you tell a man that there are 400 billion stars, and he'll believe you. But if you tell him a bench has wet paint, he has to touch it?
*Why do fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing?
*If you're in a vehicle going the speed of light, what happens when you turn on the headlights?
*Can blind people see their dreams?
*If people can put up nude statues everywhere, then why can't we run around naked?
*Do sheep shrink when it rains?
*If your name as Anonymous, would you get credit for everything nobody wanted credit for?
*If feathers tickle people, do they tickle birds?
*If 7-11 is open 24 hours a day, why are there locks on the doors?
*Why are boxing rings square?
*How do "please keep off the grass" signs get there?
*What is a free gift? Aren't all gifts free?
*Am I getting smart with you? How would you know?
I want answers, and don't tell me the sky's the limit because there are already footprints on the moon. I guess you could take this seriuosly or not, depending on your mood. I'm mellow today.
*Why isn't phonetic spelled the way it sounds?
*Why do we drive on parkways and park on driveways?
*How does the guy who drives the snowplow get to work in the mornings?
*Why are cigarettes sold in gas stations when smoking is prohibited there?
*What if there were no hypothetical situations?
*Why does your nose run and your feet smell?
*Why is it that if you tell a man that there are 400 billion stars, and he'll believe you. But if you tell him a bench has wet paint, he has to touch it?
*Why do fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing?
*If you're in a vehicle going the speed of light, what happens when you turn on the headlights?
*Can blind people see their dreams?
*If people can put up nude statues everywhere, then why can't we run around naked?
*Do sheep shrink when it rains?
*If your name as Anonymous, would you get credit for everything nobody wanted credit for?
*If feathers tickle people, do they tickle birds?
*If 7-11 is open 24 hours a day, why are there locks on the doors?
*Why are boxing rings square?
*How do "please keep off the grass" signs get there?
*What is a free gift? Aren't all gifts free?
*Am I getting smart with you? How would you know?
I want answers, and don't tell me the sky's the limit because there are already footprints on the moon. I guess you could take this seriuosly or not, depending on your mood. I'm mellow today.
My Thoughts
Nihilism, the philosohpical position that values do not exist but rather are falsely invented. Am I a nihilist? Perhaps so. Let us ponder on this as it is explored. Well the main value I have been living by is that men are only human. Now I don't know about angels, but it's fear that gives men wings. Psychological fear especially. Fear tactics, the pedophiliac smile; I've basically mastered both aspects of fear. I know that fear being fear itself, there was no glory in this. I hadn't asked for this crap. Trouble had come to me, in big dark swarms. The good and the just, they were like gold dust in this city. I have no illusions. I am not one of them. I am no hero. Just me. My options had decreased to a singular course. I perhaps have taken the path of a nihilist, yet I got lost on the road of life. I bring no happiness, just simple melancholy. Philosophically speaking, there probably isn't any meaning in life. Perhaps you can find something interesting to do while you are alive. Like how you found that flower. Like how you subscribed to my blog. It is as though I fight for my sake only and live to love no one but myself. I have no reason, but I have discovered that any soul needs a purpose to live... and so I concluded that my purpose was to anihilate everyone besides myself. But why do I keep myself alive? Why do I bother keeping myself afloat? I was once told that the reason why big brothers were born first was to protect the little ones from those who come after them. Why protect, when you can destroy? Never have I protected anybody, nor do I expect it from anyone. Hypothetically, yes, I am swaying more towards agnosticism. Agnosticism, for your information, is the philosophical view that the truth value of certain claims — particularly metaphysical claims regarding theology, afterlife or the existence of deities, spiritual beings, or even ultimate reality — is unknown or, depending on the form of agnosticism, inherently impossible to prove or disprove. It is often put forth as a middle ground between theism and atheism, although it is not a religious declaration in itself and the terms are not mutually exclusive. Some people live like an ivy vine, they can only live by clinging onto the trees supporting them, which is their flaw. Evidently they need to put down some roots so someday they can stand on their own. If only I could control time. I want to buy more sand for my hour glass. Too bad nobody sells any. I know a person who only know too well the price of everything, but the value of nothing. I would definitely like to go back to my dream last night. I was surrounded by people whom I knew well and whom I thought I knew well, but then they changed. They became ghost-like, and I knew the appetites of ghosts intimately. They hungered for revenge. It's basically like this; you piece together a jigsaw and the final picture is you finishing that same puzzle, a mad golden-eyed killer standing behind you. An urban legend come true. And then in my dream last night, I felt as though just when you thought you had reached the deepest depths of horror, it suddenly got worse. How to turn off that small voice inside your head that started to whisper that you should be glad... that now, if not before, your revenge was justifiable on any conceivable moral scale. That small voice proved, beyond any doubt, that I was damned. I adore my dream last night, lucky it wasn't a wet dream as I heard that you can get wet dreams if you are very cold; I tried desperately to get sick by means of hypothermia and failed epically. yet in return, I got an awesome dream, yet it ended, like it sort of faded from my mind and when I woke up it was 8:25 am. Holy fuck, that was why I rocked up just in time for assembly at school today.
Keep reading and subscribe if you like, guys. I'll try to blog when I'm bored (which is like 24/7)
Ensique, Josiah
Keep reading and subscribe if you like, guys. I'll try to blog when I'm bored (which is like 24/7)
Ensique, Josiah
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The second Blog
Yes I realise that it's only been a short time since the first blog, but I feel as though there won't be as much ranting here as there was in the first post. so lets say, go back to music? I hate happiness; if I were to rip you chest open, what would I find there? Just a materialistic heart, and yet what is that? What is this "happiness"? Not everybody is happy, but everybody is either hated or hates someone else. It is the simple yet brutal way the world revolves; thus happiness is not enough to go through. That is why people remember the "good times", but it still isn't enough. Happiness doesn't solve anything, it is completely useless; in fact it takes your mind off everything. That is why it would be more practical to feel angry - after all, everyone feeds off anger and rage to keep them going. Happiness and Anger is like the sun and the moon, yet they still create eclipses. How do we explain that? It is quite simple, just like the fable of the monkey and the moon. However close the thinks he is to capturing the moon it's still just a reflection in the water. When he tries to capture the moon all he does is sink like a fool. Anger can be lickened to the moon in both cases, whilst Happiness is nothing but a mere reflection of anger. Just like in a simplistic game of chess. When you counter, you dont let them cut you. When you protect someone, you dont let them die. When you attack, you kill. There is no happiness, only the purpose to win. Thus I conclude that happiness is nothing. I have come to the point where I can't help but to fall. Fall behind. Fall beneath. I am falling, yet I do nothing. Despair is all that there is right now. They say that VCE is fair. Too fair. If they ever introduced VCE to adults in their workforce, it will be scrapped without question as it is too fair - it does justice to those work hard and are good at the VCE only. It won't tell if you are going to be a psychopath killing everybody. It won't tell you if you are going to succeed in anything at all. It is justice. Without a higher cause,justice is nothing more than a slaughter...But slaughter in the name of a higher cause is justice. That is why the VCE is too fair, as it is not what marks you get; it what marks you get relative to what other people get. It's basically saying to one: "Sure I'll give you an inch, but I'll take a mile." You may do well in your VCE, but scaling and competition will bring your Study Score down. Some call it unfair, yet it is simply too fair. Sorry guys if you disagree, but this is my sin. Get in my way and you will die.
The first post
I love taking worst-case scenarios... hehe... well it seems to me that I have more people I hate than I have friends... or on facebook at least? 326 friends, 387 pending friend requests. (some people whom i dislike add me but i did nothing to their friend adds). It is just this kind of shit in the world that we clearly don't need. Let's see how far we've come. hmm don't know where to start so I'll start with schools, as it is the simplest. Primary schools: attended 6 primary schools within a time period of 6 years; Secondary schools /High schools: 1 up to now (I'm in my final year) Sanity? I don't remember ever having such a thing? Well I guess in the earlier years I was super random, yet not so different now? Music tastes? Wasn't really into music during the primary years 'cause in singapore it was mostly asian songs. Yes, guys. Despite being Asian, I despise most Asian songs. So happy. So cheery. So fake. Life isn't happy and like any of those songs; you cannot possibly be telling me every morning is a great morning. For fuck's sake, I hate mornings. I realise I am ranting. This is my first blog. I should stop ranting and finish my first post, realizing that this isn't the most impressive of posts. I apologise guys.
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