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  1. A computer changes everything. For almost a year now, none I had. Malpractice, tech breaks down. Now I am jacked once more.

    Writing while listening to music on headphones. Pen and paper is dead when compared to such interfunction. Or is it?

    A writer dipping his pen in ink(more time to think if ink not ever flows) listening to Wagner on the gramophone. Socrates formulating his thoughts while dancers of the temple move through the streets.

    Time.... what is time? Geology shows us our minuteness. Cosmology shows that geology is but a gnat on the donkey's arse.

    I am surprised by the common human. In a vast world filled with wonder, it chooses repetition, rote, instinct.

    I am a common human. We all are. Even Einstein had to shit.

    But what did he think of while shitting?
    What does a queen think of while shitting?

    The realms of time ever lost to us. History is but a drop in the ocean of human existence.

    Perhaps there was a great composer, most creative, who heard sounds in his head while living in a cave some 50 000 years ago. Never recorded.

    Who knows? Knowledge is ever limited. Simplifications needed for a being that is but dust in the grand scheme of things.

    Enjoy the ride, for it ends.
    Malisky likes this.
  2. Subject's verbal communications recorded on a systematic basis. Subject enclosed in ovoid dome constructed of bone and covered by a fleshy membrane. No direct interaction with subject is permitted. All utterances made by subject to be recorded verbatrim.

    Log #1

    It is with a determination long lost, now refound, that I start my rants, oh world! To diarize, a quaint practice. To diarize publically, an oddity to my mein, or perhaps a practice I have merely dabbled with on the pixel planes. Consistency, now that is a goal hitherto unsought.

    All beings, in the end, shall keep their grave-secrets tucked away in their little minds. So I write!
    Not of that which defines the person in a stolid scientific manner, but rather of that which progresses it, perhaps incapsulates it within the moment.

    Exhibitionism, exploration of the self perhaps, yet purpose is served and results are generated: I write.

    My passion long held yet rarely embraced. My love of words and their swirling potentiality of complete creation. A painting cannot contain a universe, for such a painting should be of such exquisite detail and size to mirror the very universe it is created in, if meaning is to be expressed of its narrative nature.

    A book can change the laws of physics in a way that no visual medium can match, for even in a computer simulation the base laws still hold the model captive. Imagination transcends these laws, it is a facet of the model that can warp the model in the minds of beings bound yet by the model.

    The void cannot be painted, yet it can be imagined. A galaxy can not be sculpted, yet put one human in a room and in a lifetime it can conjure millions of planets.

    So... here I am. Writing so that I can start writing. I have ordered a refurbished laptop and today I shall recieve it. This is a significant technological leap for the homonid tribe that is my brainy bits. I am abstaining from alcohol. I am looking to move to a city, a town, leaving a community of such hilarious solitude within this backwater place that I call habitat.

    The internet is a glorious god of many gifts. Spatial, temporal and social liberties it has granted to our species. We have become a colony of variantly mutated ants on this ever-falling rock, pheromones excreted via electromagnetic means.

    A knife not sharpened can not cut tendons. A being not faced with that which it despises may struggle to discover its deepest passions.

    I have strolled through the valley of normality. I have drunk the wine of the commercial rivers that flow ever so freely across this earth. I have stared into the face of a coward, and now I spit an acrid blob of gloop into that visage. I tweak its nose, maybe punch it in the face.

    Violence has always produced results. The very continuation of life is predicated upon violent acts, for reproduction without prey, whether vegetable or animalistic, is patently impossible.

    So I write, and may my nine fingers groan in pain evermore, the lazy bastards.
    Malisky likes this.
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