I hate to admit that I am forgetting about silence.
The lack of sound, the lack of movement, the lack of everything really; silence.
Even walking to campus during sunset, the almost perfect evening shining on my face was only augmented by the sound Flying Lotus thumping in my ears.
It’s funny, libraries are quiet, and so badly I want to go and defile that.
You taught me silence, to a degree, and in quiet moments it brings me back to you.
I’m shivering with anticipation, for soon I’ll be taught again what that means.
On the phone it’s different though, to me if feels like a gap, like a transmission lost. That’s what phones are for though right? They capture the conversation, edit out the emotion, all the baggage that cannot travel through lines, and then it sends over the revised copy to be picked up by friendly ears. Clean, well usually, quick, and a copy.
Face to face will be a shock, to say the least. It will overflow the senses, like the first drink of water on a hot day.
“O cruel, needless, misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Big Brother.”—1984, George Orwell
God damn you [adult swim]! I will never know what glorious music is in your bump ads! You show like 15 seconds of unmemorable text with amazing music and imagine that I can miraculously find that on google?
The time is 16:33 on 18 October, 2011 AD. In a fraction of a second after I click “save”, this comment will be readable by you- someone whom I have never met and who may be on the other side of a planet living in a country which I’ve only heard of from a Wikipedia article or brief mention on the BBC.
This comment will have travelled thousands of kilometres within a second of clicking save. Within minutes, it will be picked up by electronic spiders which comb the internet for new content and index it. Within an hour you should be able to google the first sentence of this paragraph and see my comment, within a day it should be on every search engine online.
As word after word mounted onto each other to make a sentence, the suspense became worse and worse. You know that feeling you get when you know that something is awry, maybe even wrong? Command center was ordering that feeling by the metric ton.
Forcing myself to slow down, I cleaned my room out of nervousness. Its odd how you don’t even know what your doing until youre almost finished with it. It hit me as I folded the last of the clothes on the floor. I was breathing fast, and my mind raced as hands became more and more useless. I was shutting down.
Time did this funny thing were it became slow and fast at the same time, especially when the all too familiar cascading call of skype came. And then it hit me; something was wrong.
It took a little while for my eyes to register it, but the rest of me already knew. Almost instantly, defenses were up, and a comfortable mindset and position were at the ready. No need to flirt with danger this time, it was down to the chase.
You can learn so much just from body language. Ears tuned out as a pixelated and swaying figure presented to me the information is serious eyes and shaky fingers. Shoulders slumped as eyebrows froze, and hearts sank as lips muttered truths in as small of a way possible, like a noxious air was present that would kill you if your mouth was open too wide.
"The first one to get angry loses the argument"
I don’t remember what exactly command center ordered, but this new concoction of drug like emotions wasn’t pleasant. But it wasn’t awful either. It was calming, in a way that could freeze water. Anxiety rushed through me as futures collided in the planning agency. ‘What the hell is supposed to happen now?’
And I knew exactly what. The most painful thing to be felt came not from actions supervised by alcohol, but instead from warm summer nights alone. It came from silent phones, from empty dashboards, from glistening waters devoid of another body, of songs singing mournfully to a chorus of one.
Just then logistics tuned in, weighing with precision actions and reactions, and deciding outcomes. An answer was had, that gave this storm cloud a silver lining that wasn’t lightening.
To write that answer would be to commit a felony. Those thoughts are taboo in text, only when whispered in moments of weakness and desperation, or especially in times of heated passion and thought are those things supposed to be expressed.
The department of reasoning weighed in its opinion, and a treatise was created.
"Love is like a sin, my love."
Finally, damage control had its way. Defenses seemed to withstand the brunt of wave, with diffusion streams of thought created to ease tension. The smile center received an incorrect order, but it ended up working out better than the original, so the decision was kept.
When in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possess’d, Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope, With what I most enjoy contented least. Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
They don’t work out like text usually. Even if I can’t go back and correct text, it still flows a little more naturally than words do.
With words, spoken phrases, things get jumbled and confused. Connotation and facial expressions and body language all play against each other to try and portray the same idea, and that usually doesnt end well.
Add that to an idea that I don’t even know all the way through myself and its a recipe for disaster.
Somehow, the recipient seems to know what I’m saying though, the idea passes through, only slightly fractured. Funny how language works.
I just finished The Hunger Games series about 10 minutes ago, and I am infuriated. I feel like that ending broke style, broke character, broke everything that the book had led up to create. It seemed almost like an after thought. A brilliant, terrifying, afterthought. I guess it’s good that this book evoked so much emotion, and had me hooked up until the very end, and was full of quite a few surprises, that only seemed so in afterthought. It was very well written, except for a few confusing tenses, but god damn that ending.
I honestly didnt mean to take it that causally, but the air of seriousness just wasnt fitting, like someone in a tux at a BBQ.
There are so many things I could say, so many phrases that have bludgeoned to death by people far and wide. Hell, even I tend to use words too often. It’s hard to remember that they are in fact a precious resource, and that they grow more valuable with age.
I want to shout, though. I want to release. Not in anger, or anguish, or any sort of oppression, but shouting for shouting’s sake. Or better yet, I want to take it out in some naturally creative design, let it seep out with the sound of a cool creek over rocks, let it hiss out on rough beaches by the caves, let it rush out with the fast scenery of peddled feet.
Most of all though, I want you. Again, I bludgeon that word until it is no more, it lays beaten at my finger tips. But I want you. I want the touch of you, the scent, the warmth of you.
Slip is a scary word, but we’ve heard much worse. In no way am I angry with you, that would be outrageous. Nor do I hurt, except for the 3 measly weeks that drag by.
I can’t help but smile when I think of taboo, about words that cannot be spoken, and I hope you know how much it took to write this (not in the normal, anguishy sort of way, but more in the “I feel like I’m breaking some sort of secret” kind of way). Your fingers dance on my arm and your lips play at mine, but I do not give up my composure.
Soon I’ll be able to tickle them back. (Pine needles prick at my skin.)
Here I sit, with toothbrush in hand, and my face hurts. It wasn’t knuckles, thank god, but instead gloves, and it was fucking fun.
In a sobering state, I watched the video of two exposed bodies box it out.
It was extremely fun, feeling the rush of flight or fight take over as I dodge and try to weave my way around. Of course, in an inebriated state, this translates to stumbles and random movements, but still, it was something.
Somehow I won. Some say the other guy got a bloody nose. Others a bloody lip. But somehow I won. And I don’t know what to think.
Was the exhiliration really worth it? Lets see what tomorrow holds.
It seems that the little traps we call beds will once again groan at my departure in the morning. If only it knew just how much I longed for it during the day, then maybe we wouldnt have this love hate relationship going on. But alas, when my head slumps on the pillow, the sleep doesnt come.
Little blue pills in a noisy bottle seem to help temporarily. And who doesnt like to drown away some sort of problem with technologies fruits? Whats a little diphenhydramine to lull the senses and disable focus.
But I think I know the root of the problem, or more, what causes the symptoms; a restless mind.
But not in the “ponder the world and life and everything” type of restless. The awake restless, the aware restless. That type of awake that makes seconds tick by slower, that makes words slur and hands become sharp. The type of focus that coincidentally drowns out a persons speech, but makes their eyes say more than their tongue ever could.
The root of that? Hell if I know. I have my ideas, as do we all, but its how you explain them, or even approach them that causes the hold up there.
Wish me luck tonight. But even if straying thoughts and stage two don’t come and haunt my flickering eyelids, I have a sleepy mind I can wake. There’s always something special about a 3 am phone call, as teenage years can prove.
Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
Every sentence must do one of two things-reveal character or advance the action.
Start as close to the end as possible.
Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them-in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.
Its funny how quick something can change, or how little it takes to facillitate change.
One can survive the storms, the bitter cold, and the soaking of heads from unrelenting rain, and yet all it takes is a bad occurrence to throw yourself into the gutter.
Time is an extremely important at this hour. While your body screams for action, even the outer reaches of your primal mind beg for it, but you have to think: “Wait for Time.”
Who are you to rightly judge a situation having just received information from temperamental emotional centers and corrupted figuring complexes? Who are you to state that you feel X, and therefore Y should happen?
In the small spectrum of yourself, you are everything. But that doesn’t matter much seeing as you depend on society to live. In the scope of everything of the earth, that pressing matter can wait, can summon a reply, can provide, with clear logic and an even clearer head, the reason for your discomfort.
Or at least thats the right thing to do, right? To wait, to be patient.
It was the wisdom of all common gods to be patient, to be virtuous, to be open hearted and mindful of your thoughts. That last bit of Jedi wisdom doesn’t make a whole lot of sense does it? Be mindful of your thoughts? Think about your thinkings. Examine how you examine. Now that its dismantled, it makes a lot of sense.
Started with some back and forth partying. Our neighbors had a huge things going on, so we would party hop between our place and theirs.
As the night raged on, so did we. It was plenty fun staying sober and watching the drunken mobs below pass by. Leland and I watched and watched as throngs of stumbling faces passed.
Again, party hopping, and now the parties themselves moved between fast and slow paces. First it would be kicking, then it would be done.
That happened about 6 times, and is currently happening now.
Lots of friends visited, which was fun. The best, however, was when an old dormmate of ours, came running into our apartment, through the hall, screaming “No!” We hadnt been close to this girl, nor seen her this year, so through her beligerently drunk self and our confusion, it was a good time. I still have no idea what happened.
As I was about to hop into bed, a new load of people came over, and now, in a last ditch effort to get some sleep, I retired to my room, hoping they wouldn’t be too loud.