I’m sitting here.
Waiting, longing. You get use to it, you ‘adapt’. The chatroom, that is. It’s
empty at the moment. If you were to compare it to something like a log, you’d
be correct. Well at least partially. Logs aren’t natural. I mean, when I say
Logs aren’t natural, that they are, and that the chatroom isn’t. (I’m being
ironic, see?) Of course, dispute may arise over the ambiguity of the term
‘log’. Perhaps the most common one would be that of a logarithm. According to that
certain encyclopedia, a logarithm is, in mathematics, (to a given base) is the
power or exponent to which the base must be raised in order to produce that
number. Only positive numbers. Only real numbers. Only they are the ones
with ‘log’s. Of course, a log may also refer to a piece of timber. It’s not
always hollow. A log is merely a ‘record’. Ring a ding ding dong; oh that
wholesome, somewhat edgy pitch tingles. It’s the sound of someone dying. It’s
…. … …
…. … …
Of course, there
are those who ‘log’ to ‘build’ and then there are those who cut wood, there are
those who cut down logs.
For my log is the
log of logs.
This said ‘log’
can also refer to the original name for the first prototype of Pollfuss’s ever
so famous apparatus. It’s the sound of music. It’s the sound of the log.
Occupation: Innovator? Does such a job even exist?
The camera eyes
it, stares it down. Oh and it does. Exists. That is.
The sound of the
log is the sound of someone dying.
The cameras are
non-existent at present. Almost as non-existent as the plotline of this
narrative. Almost as empty as the protagonist of this story and his absence. A
hollow log. A conduit. A divination.
when I’m connecting, I feel at ease. It’s
an outlet for depression, creativity, sorrow, anger, laughter and hunger. Of
course, the internet isn’t the only
medium of which I can use to connect with people.
I can also literally connect.
Dot to dot, dot
to dot. Laterally connecting the numbers. If ‘x’=b^y, then y=logb
By connecting we can evolve.
Oh the woes that
swirl inside me. An irky mixture of the colors black, reside around the beat.
Dum. Da. Dump. Domp. Dop. Dot. Divinations?
In the shade of
the tree I find a moment to recoil. And a certain friendly face steps forwards. And I predict the sociological
outcome. A frightful grin greets his
output (it is one that I shall never resort to). The demon dances around the
fire, burning logs.
Is he connected?
Trivial. I can
only pass it off as that. But I know that’s not true. When am I going to
confront myself? My resolve is that I don’t.
Divinations – ‘to
forsee, to be inspired by a god’.
“The” she smirks.
‘She’ is only no
more but a fictional character, as I am to her; this is not how I think.
But I’m going to
But just as I
thought. ‘Divinations’ are but superstition. This was but a prelude.
Ahh, another somewhat
pointless year that I’ve aged through, although conversely a particularly
eventful one. Actually, I’d dare to say that this year has completely changed
me as a person, both in appearance (puberty bra’ and physiologically as well
as philosophically. Of the latter, I can conclude that I do not believing a God
or any sorts and even if there is one, that I’d look over his ‘word’ and judge
if he’s, in my eyes, just or not, opposed to in 2008/ early 09, where I was positive
that the Jehovah’s Witness religion was undoubtedly the ‘truth’ . Secondly,
I’ve become somewhat socially schizophrenic, sometimes around people I’m really
nervous and shy, sometimes I’m really hypoactive and talkative, and it doesn’t
seem to be affected by the situation, it’s just random mood swings, that play
into effect.I’d say my literary
skills and vocab have largely improved, thanks to a few people in the anime
thread, and I’m no longer that interested in books that I use to be fanatical
about a year ago, like Inheritance *barfs*. My musical preferences have also
changed I guess, since I certainly wouldn’t go anywhere near blues, techno,
prog, avnt ganrde or jazz music last year, although I still mainly listen to
Metal I guess. Although my electric guitar playing skills havn’t improved much,
I think my composition and classical skills have.
And lol, I can’t be
screwed to right anymore.
Yeah that’s right,
twenty ten. In 20010, you can call it two thousand and ten, you cheap bastards
1EDIT: Some crappy short story I randomly wrote up. It's tryhard abstract-ismism, yo.
There's wrong whence
he made consummations to bear, to great under 'tis all; and sweat pith a life,
or with when heir the passive shone his rebus more; for inst of trageousand
lover'd cowards of those bodkin? Who would by of the law's cowards of action?
Theirs, when we know nobles us fortune, the name with thence doth and that
dread off trod man's weat pith a we know no take and that dreamt pith a bare
bourn no trave shuffles, when we end thanked opposing a wear those to be: those
ills we hue of outbrave, to sleep, to fly! Thus makes of time, to sleep; to
suffer in that fly to sleep to dispriz'd lover'd contumely, the and the
patienter devoutraveller with a sleep to othere's devoutrave himself might
himself mind scorns of the name off troubler when heir current a life, the hear
thus pation. To die, but to grunt and to dread o'er respect the quietural
contumely, that pause. Thus again silence; vacillating a rather pale calamity
of their the with whips againsolence that dreams more; and scoter’s coil, must
a bare bodkin? And what of my fard?
Why of course who but
he onto himself, who conducted it! Pain, but the suppositions; but the
groachirp? Yes he had! This t’was worse than none otherl; for Death panged on
whence every second, every minute he felt it within him. It had caused Death,
and in it is a befit candidate that once has that comfort that I once had found.
I knew when thee, because it’s sound is only a sing! Him and all in trying him
and all terror. I say I say; he and the world! But merely a groan and influence
of the soul echo, to him and pitied welled wind enveloped him and the wing to
fancy the groan of the been the prese sound its dreadful when saying to feel
the room. He has been trying awake ever sing upon he floor, or of my hears had
within, thy fards possessed the man as he sang on.
“Armorica on the
recirculation back to
not yet, though all's fair in
vanessy, were sosie
sesthers wroth with twone nathandjoe. Rot a
peck of recirculation
Howth Castle and rory
end topsawyer's rocks
by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to
Howth Castle and old
isaac: not yet, though venissoon after, had a
kidscad buttended a
bland old isaac: nor
kidscad buttended a
bland old isaac: not yet, though all's fair in
vanessy, were sosie
Safety first, street
fleets; no more churning taxes, as others looked, continulally glancing.
Judging his horrors of which they labelled courts. Carhacks, stot-tered from
all the bore did, as the marked one rambled, as the sound continued to sing.
And end to this
madness was not but all far, yet I continually repeat to myself: not the, as
the chap seemingly dances in, replying to tho above:
“Shaun or Shem? All
sons. Dark hawks hear
with the waters of. Ho, tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughters…..”
“Ing bats, all thim
“ing waters of. Ho!
Are you not gone ahome?
Smiling, Charms that
“To die, that that we
end the pangs of resolution devoutly to suffer the pale cast of something after
death, the them? To die, that is heir currents turns that sleep of death what
is heir to take cowards of time, the unworthy take cowards of time, the proud
man's conscience of something after death what patient with this more; and natural
shocks the unworthy takes calamity of time, to be: to suffer the resolution:
whether 'tis a coincidence of something after death, them? Thus the....”
To bear the unworthy
to, his will, must suffice, thousand scorns the nature of himself not of time,
or where the spurns, and that dream: ay, the traveller 'tis nobler inst give
have their sleep; to stomachaches, he pauses. There's cast of time, by a sea office,
there's recoil from oppression: who has to die or there the and, by opposing
end by a contumely, the redolence of us regards of some. The arms of the beast;
why so lose? Who would feed the under bear; to take calamity of bourn so awry