as you were

I need to get out more...

2010-04-07T09:07:00.000-07:00

I remember revering someone's blog through the eyes of an inoccent child. Now that I think about it, how young was I? Of course, now I lie down in bed and mock myself for the futile efforts at attempting to recreate the beauty that I saw...or imagined. Whichever. Am I succeeding, though? Do I dare think for a second that my efforts aren't just...efforts? But no, I must steel myself. My words fall in vain, useless, powerless, helpless, just everything less. I musn't forget.

Now that I've just admitted how stupid and self-conscious I feel in writing my thoughts down, let me start spewing out the nonsense.

I'm scarred.

Honestly, I never thought it possible. I thought that I was prepared for what lay ahead. I thought I knew how to handle awry situations. I THOUGHT I knew how to get things right.

Fucking dumbass...

The Cell

2009-12-24T08:16:00.000-08:00

How long has it been?

Years, decades, seconds, weeks, days, months...time just did not hold as it used to anymore.

I chuckled at the phrase that wormed itself out of my mouth, "Time is money."

I suspected I would be crushed by gold nuggets the size of my head if that were true. In this tiny cell, I owned time.

I sniffed around my dank cell. No. No, that wasn't necessarily true. It was the key-holder who held my time. My life. My everything. It wasn't even worth talking to him now. What did a girl look like, I wonder?

What was that phrase I was just thinking of? Rats again today. I must find out how to block that hole. If only I still had my arms, I would be able to tear away my shirt and make a stopper...

I stopped my train of thought at that moment. I had already forgotten, for the fifth time in two urines, that I had used what rags I had for food. Same went for my left arm. Now my right arm, rats infected it. The saw the keyholder used had jagged ends. My teeth are jagged, or what teeth remained.

I heard a clinking on the other side of my splintered door. After a while, I decided it wasn't worth the effort to look out. Sometimes the key-holder had a jug of wine that he would drink noisily and smugly stare at us. After about the tenth time, I gave up trying to tear at my door, clawing it with all I was worth. That's how I lost most of my nails when I still had my arms. I suspect that's how the rats were attracted to my arm, with that bloody mess I made.

Once in a while, I would hear that newcomer sing one of his songs. He's a recent one. Came eighteen poops ago. Still cries himself to sleep. Pathetic wretch. Probably still fat. I didn't notice the drool that had started to accumulate and drip down my greasy beard. Probably still had all his limbs. My eyes became bloodshot. I still remembered biting down on that arm of mine. The blood dripping down. The chewy skin under my teeth. I started shaking uncontrollably. The ecstasy of the possibility of meat two doors down tore a growl out of my throat. I hardly noticed. Maybe, in the past, I would have abhored and gagged at the state that I was in, but not now. If I had my nails, I would have clawed my face. My breath came out in irregular gasps. I bared back my teeth. My eyes were on the brink of popping out. My chest heaved in and out, in perfect harmony with my imperfect breathing. My legs shook, and finally stomped on the floor. I found myself shrieking. I found myself writhing on the floor, not aware of the sharp fangs of rock formation that littered my floor. The blood seeped out. Huge ugly rodents with their revolting pink worm-tails skittered out of their puny cracks--it was a wonder how they got out.

They ran over me, sucking at my blood, clawing at my skin, biting at what was not rotten. And I howled in ecstasy.

I howled.

God help me, I howled.

I did not notice the door opening. I did not notice the gun shots. I did not notice the shouts in the hallway. All I could think of was meat. Meat. MEAT. Darkness fell upon me as I felt a sharp pain on my forehead. I have no recollection of what happened. I fell in a labyrinth of the enigma, the inner conscience of the hypothetical reality. I travelled through time in this reality, and encountered thousands of thoughts and warped memories perversed by a rotten filth of pasty yellow and a morbid black that I cannot fully describe.

I cannot know how long I went through this nightmarish reverie. I woke up to the vision of sand under my face and ocean behind me. I cannot know how I ended up in this island. I cannot know where this island is. The greatest mystery of all, I cannot know why I survived when I am sure others did not. Those gunshots sounded like the prison was under attack. Yet, regardless, it has been several years now that I have survived with no arms. I can finally find the courage to write about my life in that tiny cell that I have considered my life before my renaissance for I cannot remember my life before the cell.

With the help of the few books that I could salvage over the years from wandering crates or wrecked pieces of ships that somehow land in this island, I am able to write utilizing my toes on pieces of bark. As crude as it may be, for the next survivor who lands on this God-forsaken island, my history will be crucial for survival.

If human-kind exists any longer, then hear my out.

And God save our souls.

Christmas Cards?

2009-12-23T01:20:00.001-08:00

I find it slightly ironic that we send engineered holiday cards with pictures whose subjects are deliberately showing their best (which, in most likely cases, is not them) intended to 'show' how we've grown.

Not that I have a choice...So for the moment, I'll gel my hair, put on lotion, wear my best Sunday clothes, and hope that the viewer will look at the pretty little gildings and figures on the side meant to distract rather than turn their eyes on me.

Or whatever 'me' is supposed to be.

"I don't like being ignored,"

2009-12-23T00:25:00.000-08:00

he said quietly, staring at the dark wall directly in front of him.

The coarse dark wool that constituted his clothing shifted slightly as he straightened up.

"I don't like being ignored," he repeated, slightly louder this time. After a full blank minute, he slouched back down, picked up the butt end of the grimy bread and started chewing where he had left off last night--or whenever last night was.

The moonlight weaved through the cell bars to leave green amorphous shapes on the gray rough floor.

"I don't like being ignored," he muttered.

Hmph

2009-12-19T05:54:00.000-08:00

I commented on someone else's blog, and, to be witty, I copied the comments of the previous commentators by starting with "Et moi, je suis [insert name]."

Looking back, I noticed later that my comment was very redundant and foolish because my name appeared below my comment...

[Insert Interesting and Witty Title Here]

2009-12-17T08:31:00.000-08:00

More and more, I'm starting to realize that I'm forgetting things that I promised to myself never to forget. Consequently, I can't remember what they were anymore, just that there's a hole where there shouldn't be.

Was it a promise I made back in First grade? Did I naively promise that I would go out with such and such last year? Maybe a resolution that was supposedly critical back then? A certain style I was pursuing?

Or maybe it's a person?

It's happened more than once, all of them recent. For example, I browse through my Facebook, and then suddenly I come upon a name that I don't recognize but somehow gives me the impression that I should know that person. After waiting for a frustratingly infinite time, I finally get on that person's profile and...still can't remember. At least, not the essentials.

I read in a book once, (although the terms 'educational cartoon' fits better, as paradoxic as they sound) that people forget that which they think is unentertaining. Can my 'friends' on Facebook (or anyone else who I've buried in the miscellany section of my mind, for that matter) be considered as unentertaining like objects displayed in a forgetten antique museum?

These fits of blankness admittedly scare me. Not for any reason associated with Alzheimers, but simply because the fits introduce the foreign prospect that I might possibly forget those dear to me.

I like to fancy that the human mind is one endless pit that dims the deeper one gets. All the memories are stored in endless shelves, categorized by chronology. The deeper one gets, the older the memory. But what if those memories are lost? What if I am unable to gain access to my past life?

A new prospect just dawned on me as I wrote that last paragraph. What if what I'm actually afraid of is loosing the raw data? The unedited, real version of what actually happened? Or what exactly is it that I'm afraid of?

Franklin Delano Roosevelt once said that the "Only thing we have to fear, is FEAR itself." (Interestingly, I suddenly envisioned the scene where Remus Lupin tells Harry Potter that Harry is wise that he fears fear.) As I continue writing this, I suddenly realize that I do not know what my original fear was. It dawns on me that, maybe I didn't know that fear in the first place. I just feel...fear.

I am afraid.

Afraid...That hole that I mentioned earlier. What filled it? Why am I suddenly 'Hole-y?' Why does fear fill that hole? What do I fear? Does anyone else know this fear? Does anyone ever have real concrete answers? Does anyone actually understand the favorite adult excuse of the 'raging teenage hormones?'

Speaking of which, aren't philosophies, theories, hypothesis, explanations, religions, science, etc. simply an excuse that we give so as to hide the fact that we're afraid of an alternative? That there is a 'nothing' and that it is a perfectly logical phenomenon, simply an absence of 'something?' Black is to color as death is to life.

But I digress.

Digress...to digress from life for even a hour...Do we know what bliss means?

Gone

2009-12-13T03:22:00.000-08:00

I kept wondering what was missing..

..And then it hit me. Where are the carols? The constant spewing of catchy tunes from the radio? The lights? The month-early decorated houses? Christmas just isn't complete anymore...

To Be Brief...

2009-12-09T08:50:00.001-08:00

I've always wondered why I couldn't write in words the emotions and the cognizations that I've had in a satisfactory manner. The only comfort I can find for my dilemma is that all writers share this problem with me. Reality is so harsh...

Drawing inspiration from other blogs or posts or forums or things seems to help. Motivation, however, cannot be found so easily. I have to beat myself senseless in order to do anything, but then how can I when I am where I am at the point of me? "Do Work!" they-whoever they may be-would say. Work. Work only exists if a directed force moves an object a distance away from its original position. I consider inspiration to be the distance and the motivation, force. I have no force, so who cares if the distance exists? I believe I am the definition of Sloth in these modern times. So hang me, if you will.

I've often wondered if the world would notice if I crawled down a cave and died. I've even made song lyrics-or will when I get the motivation-from those ponderings. Not a prospect that I'll try anytime soon, but still something worth considering. For example, it made me start to think, "What if my friends aren't friends, but simply acquaintances?" God forbid, I would sooner kiss a seal than find out...

Actually, scrap that. I have kissed a seal before.

My life is a mess. Priorities have been thrown out of the window, and despite my blessed mother's contant tirades, I haven't been honest with her about my academic abilities. She thinks I am a genius. A foolish genius at that. Oh, admittedly I could do better at school if I only pried my soul away from sloth-ish activities-mostly consisting of doing nothing. Much better. In fact, I could probably get into Harvard...if...I...Ah, forget it.

One thing that grinds my gear-compliments to Mr. Griffin, a very honorable man-is that the intellectual is fading away. I've had a few conversations with a friend of mine on this topic, and she-note the fact that I am a male, and that I do have a social life-agrees with me that most people our age, if not anyone for that matter, do not talk at length about deep topics. Doubtless, some do. But I've had numerous circumstances when I've tried to be an intellectual and someone else told me not to try to act witty. Of course, forget the 'tried' part, but the least they can do is appreciate that some people like to analyze instead of running head on into a situation. What gives me inexplicable horror, though, is when I start taking the perspective of a conformist against an intellectual. Ever had a 'crap' moment?

After staring blankly at the screen for about ten minutes-in the course of which I IMed my friend and set the table-I realized that I have no glue to combine all these rants together. I think part of me was starving itself-myself?-mentally with the lack of a keyboard under my fingers. If that made any sense...I think it's high time to end this tirade with a satisfying conclusion, one involving a dragon, a toaster, a damsel in distress, and Korean bbq.

Once upon a time, in a land devoid of toasters...