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.