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Monday, May 10, 2010

Logs

Current mood: artistic

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Comments: 0

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 the sound.

 

…. … …

…. … …

 

“Cam plz”

 

Yes.

That’s right.

 Cameras.

They’re everywhere.

 

Of course, there are those who ‘log’ to ‘build’ and then there are those who cut wood, there are those who cut down logs. 

 

They’re everywhere.

 

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.

A…..B…Because 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 (x).

 

By connecting we can evolve.

 

Evolution?

 

Divinations?

 

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’.

‘A’ god?

“The” she smirks.

‘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 confront her.

 

Augury.

But just as I thought. ‘Divinations’ are but superstition. This was but a prelude.