Back again!
Nice you’re still there. This time, we’ll do some thinking, remembering the past, and dealing with the present. Hope you’ll join me!
He was caught in: Contemplation.
Saturday; a lot of things were about to happen, and it was only to prove his status among the others, his friends. We’ll go through that quickly, and then have some look at the past. This morning, he’d seen the parade in the small village he lived in; it was even smaller than the last year, and the boy who had once hurt him so much in his past — the relative of his — was not to be seen. But the really important thing was to happen this evening, when he didn’t expect anything to happen at all, at least nothing that would be linked with university; One of his friends phoned him, somebody who had been his former best friend, just in between the person we’ve talked about the last time and his current best friend. There was still contact between the two of them, and that boy had talked to his current best friend to get his address. Now, he was asking him if he could fetch something from his house, and he agreed, explaining him how he could reach that small town in the middle of nowhere. Every town around here — one may rather call them villages — was separated, and all of them without real connection. Only cold, black roads and muddy paths were linking them; and sometimes, love and emotion.
Sometimes, pain and hate. But that was not important — not now. He saw him when he arrived, running to open the door just before he could ring, giving him what he’d wished to receive and talking a bit, exchanging several words without meaning. Though he’d wished to tell him some more interesting details, he didn’t remember any, in quite the same way he wouldn’t remember the name of that boy who was with him, though he knew him, and vice versa.
As this moment was gone, he was alone again, back to writing, back to thinking. Remembering…
G. had once explained, some years ago, that now, everybody had found his or her own style, and that she was happy about it; this day, he’d just realized he was going to find out about his style, right now. As he didn’t have anything that controlled him anymore, he was free to change his character in any way he’d like. At that moment, when G. had said these words, she had looked at him, smiling, believing that the style he was showing was his style. But he was pretty sure that nobody had really found his innermost character, and revealed its abilities. Probably, this was the reason why he had never realized his love for O., or all the other feelings that had been suppressed. On the other hand, it could still be some result of the traumatic past, but he was feeling that he could control all of it. And break through to his soul…
He was going through all the options he had, and felt that he was quite a lucky person, indeed. The only problem that remained was the feeling he didn’t really know which of those options was real — and which wasn’t. Did he really have to advance to find out?
There was still enough time left to wait; However, there always seemed enough time left, and in the end, there wasn’t. He felt how strong the impact he had on other people could be; They seemed to remember the profile he’d presented them even after years had passed. And he could make friends with somebody in no time; the problem was his bashfulness, but he was learning by watching P. how to prevent it from being too powerful. O. had done so in the beginning, showing him how wrong it was to be shy, and how much one would miss; in fact, he felt he had, and he wanted to catch up with the others. Maybe, this past in isolation was something that would now give him enough strength to sustain in the life that was yet to come; on the other hand, it could be the tip of the knife that would kill him, slowly scratching the skin of his heart…
He closed his eyes, thinking he was a bird, a bird of prey. He could go everywhere; He was powerful, and every animal would show respect. He felt he was applying some psychological treatment to himself, making his character a more self-confident one; and he couldn’t help but enjoy it. He was good when it came to imagination, and currently, he was developing his talent for arts, his feelings how the colours would fit together and in which way two or more songs were joined to one, producing the next hit.
He was learning this by watching people like B., and he’d originally copied the style of character one needed to be able to conceive such things from O. B. had been important two days ago, when that party took place: She had wished to do some photo with him, standing close; though he felt it was just a sign of friendship, he had not expected her to do so. In fact, he’d believed that he was getting on her nerves. Nothing can be perfect if change still exists; and no time can exist without change. Even if time existed without change, one could not notice it was there, as time was — in fact — a description of change itself. Thus, change would be the sign of time, and if something changed, time was passing.
Patience is the best remedy for every trouble.
— from a small fortune cookie program
Itis, most times, though we don’t want it to be true. He felt disillusionized, having noticed that love was just something that could be logically controlled though this trick was not to be done so easily. But he wouldn’t believe that, though he knew it was true; he’d keep his single belief that there would be the Mrs. Right waiting out there, just for him. And though he felt it was wrong, nothing — nobody — could change this opinion of his.
He watched some people stealing a traffic sign, and there was just some discussion his parents were having on that topic. How often had his mum told him that he’d look back to the days when she’d gone on his nerves after her death? How often had they talked about the ‘good old times’ before he was born, having promised themselves they would never tell their child about such things that had once gone on their very own nerves?
This day, he’d realized that they were right, and that he would probably be the same. Once and for all, he could catch a glimpse of the future, when he’d remember all those things, probably going through these lines again, laughing now and then, and crying tears without anything holding back those feelings. Amazing, that’s the word which could describe the wonderful way those zeros and ones would make a letter, a word, a sentence, a chapter, a book; a life.
And all those touches of his fingers on the keyboard were inducing electrons to run through transistors, through cables, transformed to transport reality through virtual surroundings; finally being photons to be received by himself, or somebody completely different.
The world was amazing, impossibly amazing. Wonderful. How could he ever have thought of anything different? Sorrow was just a feeling one had when one did not realize what reality was, what his own soul was; it was just something temporary. Life was something temporary. Probably, spirit and conscience wasn’t, and we all believe in that, as we don’t want to disillusionize ourselves, even if we could do so, probably. For now, we’re finished. More is yet to come… Any opinions?
Memories,
echoes of conscience,
reverberating with the universe,
and other thoughts
out there.
Would they ever be stopped?
Would they ever be controlled?
Who would do so?
Who wished to find out?
— W.G.
More and more
was happening in the fraction
of a second;
thoughts unrestricted.
No limitation
to good and evil.
No control.
No freedom,
as everything was free.
No power.
Just temporary
existence.
Coming and going
with the tide of time.
Without rest.
Without hope.
Without future.
— W.G.
