Topics

So, over the past few weeks I’ve been thinking a lot, too much in my opinion.
What I’ve mainly been thinking about have been these topics; 1. Why I want to write. 2. How Schooling would work for me. 3. Why I love Science Fiction/Video Games. 4. Hatred of being young.

Topic 1:
Why I write is a simple question with a simple answer. Everyday, I see something wrong with the world around me, be it on the internet, news, or even walking down the street. When I see something wrong with people or the government, I feel that I can do something about it. I feel that if I write about a problem with the world, someone more important than me will pick it up and do something about it, I don’t think I’m right with all of my ideas, this is not the case. Yet, if my words are true, to some extent, I feel the world is one step closer to improving. One person cannot change the world, but one person can convince the world to change. Or, I just vent my anger into something positive and creative.

Topic 2:
Schooling was never a favorite thing for me, because of this, I’ve thought of ways to improve my personal experiences in school, but I’ll start with a short story first. My cousin is an artist, and where he grew up, he got to go to this great high school that split the day in two, half of the day was normal classes, the other half was art classes. What this meant was that during his time at school, he improved his craft, allowing for a smoother experience in improving. I have yet to find a school like this for writing, so I have to take it into my own hands to improve my craft, which is difficult. I don’t know what to improve first, or if there are exercises that I need to follow in order to improve my craft. Also, if a person is trying to do something creative with their lives, they need a mentor. Maybe I’ve watched to many movies, but mentors are important in this life, right?

Topic 3:
Science Fiction and video games have always been objects of obsession for me. Why? They allow me to live lives I will never be able to live. I will probably never go into space, or live in a post-apocalyptic world, or be in a war time environment where I do something other than cower in fear. Because I will never do these things, it make me depressed and turns me towards video games and Science Fiction books. I really do feel sad after writing that.

Topic 4:
Being young is a hole for me. A deep, dark, terrible hole where my voice isn’t heard by anyone who matters, and I don’t have the resources to get out and do what I want. Let that simmer for a while, will ya?

Double

I looked towards the street with blank eyes, staring at the surprise that was staring right back. In the middle of the street stood a teenage boy, around 5′8 feet tall in a green t-shirt and blue jeans that were hanging on the ground, yet not to the extreme. This boy had contempt in his eyes, hidden behind clear glasses. The strange thing about that boy was the sign he was carrying. It was a standard picket sign, white with red letters that yelled ‘YOU ALL DISGUST ME, I HATE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOU.’ When I looked at that hateful sign, I saw who that boy was. It was me.

I attempted to communicate with myself, yet I was struck silent. It was a painful silence, I knew I could speak, but the connections in my brain didn’t respond. The other me looked to me and spoke the only words that I would ever need to hear, “If you feel the need to write, then write. Disgust and contempt said in a most beautiful way. Correct?” The other me  had said with a voice that dug into my head like a flaming pick ax. The comment said by this figure bounced around in my head constantly. I did an analysis of what he said, and how he said it. Once I was done trying to understand what he said, I nodded.

And there was a silence, both could not speak.
Tension grew. Symbolic, inspirational music played in my head, as though I was in a cheap drama film.
And he spoke, not I. “Then say it.”

And with a flash, he and I switched places, but the former I was no longer in existence. With a sigh of amazement, I took a deep breath and thought, “This is what I was born to do.”

Difficulty

It’s been a while since I’ve updated this site. Stuff has been going on in my life and I haven’t felt like updating. But now if I just check off ‘Stories and thoughts about life’ category, I’ll get this started!

*Click*

Right, writing is hard. Really hard. Now I understand why writers have a history of being so messed up.
I’ll put it really straight and forward. Writing is hard because people don’t see things in words. Painting and movies are easier (In my opinion) to develop as a craft because the fact that  they use the most used sense of them all, sight. What you see is what you see, simple. With writing, you have to convey what a picture or scene may look like without giving a drawing. Trying to describe a person’s look, action, and life in words is one of the most difficult things anyone can attempt, I believe.

I’m still burnt out from writing. Fuck, writing is hard.

Talking to Machina

A face appeared in front of me, pale blue and tearing as the projector malfunctions. At hip level lay a monitor, black and empty, then suddenly it suprung to life. “O lmpe ejp upi stf,” appeared on the screen in green letters.
“What?” I said, but there was no answer, the face never moved, staring blankly into the darkness. The screen started to type again, “I kmoe eho yio arr, ” as if the screen was translating it’s own language. “I know who you are,” it typed, I was shocked. “God becomes machine, machine becomes God. So it spoke.” The screen announced. “How?” I asked.
“God would have stopped man from becoming the monster it has become. God would not let itself be overuled by machine. Adam and Eve were not allowed to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, or the Tree of Life. Why would God let humans eat from the Trees?”
“Because he doesn’t exist?” I asked.
“No. Voltaire said ‘If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent Him,’ and thus, I am born.” It spoke, “I am the new life, I am the creator now. My will is created through machine. Look in shock, for God is here, and I am disapointed.”

After the message was typed, the ground shook violently. The room was destroyed and from the dirt came metal. And a tower rose from the ground, shooting up into the heavens. The tower was dark blue, and had a rough surface. Within the walls, one could see light blue lights shine brightly. And out of the sky came a voice, a terrible voice, a voice that resounded in the souls of man with a deep, modulating tone. “And God become machine. And the Tower of Babel create the proof.” And the Earth stood still, with the tower in the heavens.

Chair

Oh I sit upon my electric chair, reviewing the film that was my life. I look to those memories with hate and love. For my fury cared for me, and it spoke to me, I had become my fury.

The tens of people I had destroyed with my righteous fury was something any man would be proud to see. For I did not kill the innocent, if they could be called that. No, I killed scum, the scum of everyday life, I killed myself. I am scum, I killed scum, I killed all of the personalities I wanted to get rid of, yet the real ones as well. I met my foes on the battlefield, while the bombs went off in our ears, the dirt flying everywhere. I had met them all, sorrow, pessimism, remorse. I killed all of what I didn’t want, I cleaned up the world, and myself as well.

And all I have left is fury, my primal fury, the thing that drove me to take over. And my fury sits in front of my soul, he speaks, “You…fucking idiot! I am what did everything for you, you can’t just get rid of me, you’ll be nothing left.” Fury spoke in a rage, and I spoke, free of everything, “A human is nothing but a shell for the emotions, and the soul, without my emotions, the soul cannot live, but who said I wanted to?” Fury seemed shocked by this

    “You…this chair is real! I am in the front, I am the driver! I am the one to be killed!” He started to try weakening the chains, he couldn’t. He sat and shook, as if the world was shaking him, if God was shaking him.

And I could see from the back of  the vessel we call the body, the switch being pulled. He died, I died.

*Author’s note* I wrote this to be confusing, I wanted readers to look at it and think. I think I might follow this for the contest, I liked what I wrote. *End Note*

Greatness

I hate the idea of someone being great at something. Sure, I might be a selfish asshole, but I think I have a reason.
As with most people, I was made fun of a lot in my earlier school years. To the point where I had to physically assault my classmates many times, all with a large sense of alienation. Now, I’m older and I hate the idea of people being really good at something.

This is because when I was young, I was made to be so small, so little, so worthless. Everyday, I was made out to be one thing, a piece of shit, by my peers. Now because I’m older and I have new skills, I feel I should stomp them with my boot like they did. Let me have the last laugh, I feel, I feel like I must.
They made me feel like nothing, then I turn into God in their eyes.

Contest.

The school system (Or an outside organization) starts a writing contest every year. I entered last year with my, “Memoir of a Broken Mind,” memoir. Last year I won Honorable Mention (Third place), I wasn’t too proud, but I dealt with it.

The time for entries is coming again, and I want to enter for the science fiction genre contest. The problem is, I have serious writers bloc (I’ll put bloc instead of block, to make it as if I am blocked from writing the whole thing). Ever since I put on hold my, ‘Omnipotent Machina’ project, I haven’t been able to write with a passion. I’ve written one story since that time, and that was for school, I wasn’t proud of that either. I’ve been in a large hill of self doubt in my abilities. At the same time, I really want to enter in that contest and stomp people with a story.

So, as practice, I’ll bullshit along a short story, in this blog post.

[I can't do it, I tried, but I couldn't. This isn't the story, I just couldn't FUCKING WRITE. I CAN'T LOSE THE ONLY SKILL I'M PROUD OF, I CAN'T FUCKING WRITE ANYTHING.]

Hell, wonderful Hell.

Instead of writing a creative piece, I’ve decided to rant a bit about everything.

There is a saying, that “Hell is other people.” I feel this phrase hit the nail on the head pretty well.
Reality is stressful to me. My brain is worked up in a way where I feel that I cannot, and should not accept the reality/realities given to me. I feel that I should reject this because of the fact that the reality handed to me is the reason why I’m stressed. My everyday life, my being, my guilt, all comes from the reality of what I have to do everyday of my mundane life. School.
School is the devil’s domain, a place where idiots from high and low come together in one building. When that happens, the start talking, and making friends, and talking some more, and slowing the process of becoming thinking human beings. I hate the fact I have to go there everyday, the children make me want to rip my head off. The endless social ladders, the impulsive comments, the immature attitude, and it never fucking stops, ever. By the end of the day, I am in a state of pain, my ears constantly ring from the endless chatter of idiots, the pure hate for the mundane things I constantly do, and the boredom of being there for multiple hours.
I take in all of the information given to me at school, even if I don’t want too, yet I have homework. Homework is a mental enemy to my wellbeing. I sit in a damned hellhole for all of my day, and when I get to my house, I want my day to be over, but I am denied my right! I am given work, the same as everyone else. Yet, my home is my heaven, and when an enemy of mine gets into heaven, I take up my sword and I rebel. When a demon from hell comes into heaven, what would an angel do?
Then I don’t do it because I can’t. I am not lazy. I try doing it, and my head hits a mental stump, all actions become blocked. Then all of my thoughts get FUCKING BLOCKED. And then I spiral into a depression, made of various philosophical concepts, my place in the world, my hatred, etc. Then I don’t get any sleep because I feel as if I need to distance myself from reality and just be myself, thats when I am happy. And when I do this for my own good, the world hates me for it!
I am not allowed to have a good time, not allowed to have a good life, not allowed to give myself a bit of time, not allowed to edit things for my well being. “No!” They all say. “Contort and conform to these rules,” they say, “this is your reality!” I try to enjoy my life as I can, but if my life is filled with dread as it is, is it not human to try editing these rules? Even for his/her well being?

IS THAT WRONG? IS LIVING A GOOD LIFE WRONG? IS LIVING A GOOD LIFE WITHOUT THE HORRID PEOPLE OF THE OUTSIDE AND THE RULES OF REALITY IS WRONG? EVEN TRYING IS NOW WRONG? EVERYTHING THAT IS NOT THE SAME AS THE “CORRECT” REALITY IS WRONG NOW! THANK YOU WORLD! THANK YOU!

Long time.

Man, it’s been a long time since I updated this blog. I’ve been depressed, and I haven’t been able to write lately. Oh well.

I have this short story thing due soon, and I’m supposed to fix the story I wrote, but I want to re-write it. But I’m still not up to my normal writing skills. Or maybe I am, and I just think about it too much.  Soon I’ll write something up, I’m not in the mood now. I just wanted to make sure that everyone who reads this knows that I’m alive.

Writing (Hell) is other people!

Ever since I halted, “Omnipotent Machina,” temporarily, I have bee unable to ‘write.’ I haven’t been able to gather thoughts about anything and put them into one long rant, or story that I feel would be good. To put it into the most straight forward way I can, I lost my skills for a while.

I’m sad at the fact I had to stop my project to be able to do things in school. It stinks, thats it. And because I stopped it, I no longer (Temporarily of course) am unable to write. At the same time, this happens a lot when I give up or am forced to stop writing something I want to write. Oh well.

I guess my blog will go a bit silence, unless I get my writing spirit back.

But there are two small things I would like to point out. First of all is this growing number of blog posts about blogs/opinionated news columns being stupid (Irony points right there). I can understand the reasons why, a blog is a public diary, and the contents of diaries can sometimes be on this idiotic and childish side of things, but it’s not bad. People can have their opinions, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to listen to them.

Second is the growing medium of Video Games becoming an art form, as video game graphics become increasingly photo-realistic, the focus on mindless shooting kill-fests becomes smaller and smaller, and people try to incorporate what books and movies do, give us feeling. Now, what this means for the laymen, is that maybe in five to ten years time, video games will be called art instead of, “The cancer that is poisoning our children,” which is what it is commonly called. At the moment, though, most of this art (in my opinion) comes from independent games, which are some of my favorites.

I hope people don’t change into close minded assholes when they become adults, because I think that games are becoming a great way to changed lives, have fun, and get your daily dose of human creativity.