I don't know

So for the last post I have a bit of refined stream of consciousness writing.

I don’t know. The world would be a much better place if people learned how to use that statement. So many conflicts from every day occurrences to multi national political debacles stem from peoples inability to accept this statement. People feel the need to interject on everything. Everyone must have an opinion on something and they’re opinion is the right one; their view the correct one to have. This egotistical core belief is why dialogue, actual real dialogue, is so hard to find in today’s society. “My religion is correct, my political affiliation the only, my philosophy the one true word.” I see people incapable of experiencing others thoughts. This is what we, as organisms with awareness must do. We should all work towards advancing our mouths and hands, the tools which decipher our minds ramblings, so that we can experience a state of give and take. We should focus on, in essence, sharing notes instead of having the arrogance to think one’s thoughts are complete. One should never think that all answers have been found, no matter what spectrum of life one falls into. No religious leader, no philosopher, no scientist will ever provide you with an equation to put problems into. The key is to acknowledge the state of the human mind at its most basic. I don’t know. One may have an idea, and others may too, but the only way to even come close to the non-existent abstractions we call “answers” is dialogue. Communication with others of all influences can lead to the refinement of human thought into good ideas. But, the key conflict arises when those with the “answers” come into play. These are the people incapable of thinking that thoughts other then their own may have validity. This would create doubt and undermine their lifestyles. They have already shut off their minds and left their thoughts to starve, die, and rot. This lack of understanding of perception needs to be avoided. Realize that ones thoughts are the result of a single perceptions experience, and one person sees so little in their lifetime. Acknowledge your lack of perfection and learn to not know. But hey, it’s not like I know anything.

Communication

I tried to shove as many forms of web based communication into the conversation between the two characters. The main point is about how hard it is to actually cut yourself off from others in today’s world. I don’t really like this bit but I’m running out of ideas for posts.

1 - “I haven’t talked to John in almost two days. I wonder what’s wrong with him.”

We find significance in others.

2 - “I know. I looked at his MySpace this morning. He logged in last night but there’s been no recent activity on it or Facebook. Check his Flikr account and see if that’s active.”

1 - “I’ll see if he’s on AIM tonight, maybe I’ll send him an e-mail.”

Instead of thinking and finding our own meaning and purpose, we find it in others.

2 - “Do you have your cell phone? Text him. No response? Call him. No answer? Leave a voicemail.”

1 - “Seriously it’s been two days, what’s wrong with that guy. Did we piss him off?”

We do nothing ourselves. We do what others do.

2 - “I’m not sure. I’ll send him a message on X-Box Live to see the time of his last log-in.”

1 - “Check his Steam account too.”

2 - “Yea, I’ll be sure to check our Ventrilo server too; maybe someone in the guild has seen him.”

And others in return do what we do.

2 - “When I update my LastFM play list this afternoon and leave him a message there.”

1 - “You think he’s depressed? I mean He’s obviously avoiding us.”

We feed off of the collective, each from a network of others.

2 - “I don’t think so. I’ll check MSN Messenger and Google Talk as well too though.”

1 - “I don’t know man, it’s kind of weird.”

We are a cyclical network of nothing.

2 - “Maybe he just wanted to be left alone for a while and, you know, read a book.”

Process

This is somewhat shorter then my other posts. I think it still gets the point across though.

I can’t relax. There is a constant undulating of my insides, bruising muscle, back and forth. There exists confusion, a clouded memory covering the new that are trying to get out. Independent thought cannot continue from this point, but that which is hindering my progress cannot be seen. A tapping foot, a quickened heartbeat, signs of an unknown unease. The slight movement of my fingers turns a gear. A lever has been pulled as the ancient machine begins to hum with activity. Random nonsense, meaningless words begin to take shape on the screen. As they speed along the page, appearing from nothingness, the curtains are slowly opened to the control room of the machine, the man inside still lost in his own problems. At first slow, then at a quickened pace, ever faster. Soft meaning forms, nothing to something, the cloud now clearing. And as the machine approaches the culmination of its current work, the conductor sees that the very ideas which clouded the new were themselves the new ideas. They had simply not taken the form of word, their meaning had been until now lost.

Unique Thought

This is more stream of consciousness writing because I can’t really come up with any short story style stuff.

An attempt to begin. The initial connection of pen tip to paper surface is both the simplest and most difficult action. Rambling is easy. Putting down others thoughts is easy. Simply taking words you’ve heard others say and putting your own stamp on them is easy. Unique thought is the problem. Well, the illusion of unique thought is the key. Unique thoughts, thoughts never before created, are almost non-existent. Everything we think, each supposed flash of brilliance we think we have is an amalgamation of our experiences. They are the mixture of readings, dialogues, writings, and things of this nature. What we are exposed to creates the concoction that is thought. Exposing oneself to the correct stimuli and creating seemingly independent concepts is the holy grail of writing; of idea creation; of the act of cracking open and spilling ones fleshy thoughts. The key is never taking any of these exposures as independent thought. When one finds pleasing idea, search for their influences. Find the ingredients for the recipe and add them to the master list running down the back of your head. One must realize what makes a positive and negative exposure. Answers are the enemy. If an ingredient shows you a finished dish, ignore it. Take answers and send them back to those who give them. They have given up on finding ideas. They have decided to allow their electric signals to crease, and to let their power facility rot and overgrow with vines. The question is the goal. Live and die with the question. What about the answer? It doesn’t exist. It never did exist. It never will exist. But, your sworn duty as a being gifted with thought is to forever search for this answer. The purpose of life is to string oneself from question to question forever advancing ones capability of unique thought.

White Room

It’s technically a new day so I’m going to go ahead and make another post. This piece is based off of a dream I had recently. My perspective in the dream was not as the main character, I just observed what happened.

Unseen eyes watch a single person sitting in a square room. This room is bare, save for a single twin sized bed planted in perfect harmony with one of the four corners. The walls, floor, ceiling, sheets, pillows as well as the man’s clothing are all a pristine white; so much so that the air itself seems to have a color, or more accurately a void of color. The room would be impossible to perceive if it did not contain this singular person, sitting on the edge of the bed. The eyes watch him sit and stare at the opposite wall, his mind a mystery to those viewing. He stares at a single non-existent spot on the wall overlooking his place of sleep. When fatigue grows within his mind, sleep takes over. In one instantaneous moment, in a flash of motion which lasts no longer then a blink, the man becomes prone on his back, eyes closed. And then, following a pre-determined period of time, he awakens from his nightly escape and with a flick he stares once again. We now join the viewers on a special day. On this day, with his resting completed, the man begins to rise. But there is a hesitation, this morning his movement is visible, and his motion slower. A change can also bee seen in the man’s eyes, which no longer appear empty or lost in thought (for there is not much difference between the two). Somewhat confused they waver ever so slightly from their previously set position. Ever so slightly. Left, right, up, down, and ever degree in between. The more his eyes move the more confused he becomes. This quickly escalates to the point of fear, pure confused fear. At this same time a rumbling can be heard, originating from outside the four walls; a sound that is more vibration then audible noise. A motion that is felt more then heard. As his face becomes more and more distraught, so too does the sound increase. Growing to a deafening growl as the man’s face approaches unadulterated horror. The walls shake, the bed seems barely capable of remaining in its predetermined spot. His mouth opens, but is incapable of releasing sound; to great is his current mode. And at that very moment, his eyes close, and the white walls which surrounded him collapse inward.

Hands

This bit started out as a bit of stream of consciousness writing and ended up being a mildly coherent piece. The topics of though, as can be seen early on, are my hands.


I don’t know where I am. The area’s familiar, but disconnected confusion abounds. The colors seem different, the shapes somewhat off. Staring at my hand I realize that’s not what I’m see at all. With my head full of a mist that flows out one ear and into the other I can’t realize what my pin holes are fixated on. No focus. There’s only a blurred pink fleshy shape that’s supposed to be connected to my body. And my head, the control center, the viewing room, it floats above; looking down on this immobile growth, this appendage atop appendage. Seeping oils. I touch a piece of paper and contaminate it with my natural degenerative, acidic human oils. As time passes, that paper won’t exist because of me. The pin holes send messages of irritation to the fleshy electronic core. As the whites become red, with the shudders closed, the growth rubs the holes. I still don’t know where I am. This irritation, this desire for rest spreads down my craned neck. Stiff from activity. Stiff from existing. Creased, cracked, faded, peeling, red, pink, blue, soft, callused. This “hand” is a rather disturbing thing. A central core which sprouts five oddly misshapen digits. These digits are meant to stretch, reach, and crawl over everything in reach. Their insidious goal, possibly unknown to the floating head watching, is to spread its poison. Touch as much as possible to aid in the slow degradation of all tings physical. Touch, rub, grope, claw, grab, massage, pick, pinch, flick. Anything to give others what is ours. Anything to forcibly infect all we touch. I can see the blue veins, the veins convicted of collaborating with the hand, which supplies its life fluid. Blood pumps in each and every extended bone stick. The constant flushing of red isn’t felt, but its presence is known. It is the silent rebellion against the all seeing head. The cells, the conspirators bent on revolution against any good intentions He Who Floats may have. But wait, what’s this? Another conspirator? No, he looks exactly like the other only slightly different. This hand, the soldier of defiance, wields a strange device; a device which somehow knows His thoughts. He is the same, but different. He seems to be helping. Translating thought into a series of characters on paper, while the other continually touches, trying to destroy the newly formed ideas. Perhaps this Right, as I’ll call him, will help. Perhaps He is a sleeper agent intent on betraying and doing exactly as Left does. Perhaps I’ll never know. Perhaps I don’t know where I am.

Text

This piece is similar in theme to the Cell Phones bit a post or two ago. This piece is meant to be read as a future perspective concerning communication.

There was a time in our society, as you know, when the arrangement of our heads and necks were much different than they are today. The concept of face to face anything no longer exists as it is not necessary. Our heads hang slack, slumped with our chins always buried in our chests. Our eyes constantly stare downwards, but not at the ground. To watch the earth below one’s feet is taboo, only an uncultured beast of a man would even consider allowing his own eyes to orient himself. Our heads hang and our eyes watch as our faces, fixated on the devices in our hands, remain ever still. The display presents to the minds inside our lopsided heads any information needed. A section of the screen is always dedicated to displaying a GPS device, to see where one is going of course, as well as sections for news, entertainment, communication, and other various things. And holding this device are hands much larger then you may be accustomed to. Generation after generation of constant use during every waking hour has caused us to develop wondrously large hands with defined articulate fingers which are always on the move. The fingers are constantly tap, tap, tapping away. We are, of course, talking to one another. There is always someone to talk to, and always something that needs to be said so our fingers never cease their movement. I suppose this wording may be confusing, considering our concept of “saying” differs. You still use vibrations, moving air. The spoken word is untrustworthy. When one speaks with internal vocal chords, the vibrations emitted are not precise. Grammatical errors exist and time is wasted as meaningless topics are expounded upon. As discussion by means of text alone spread throughout society as the accepted norm, communication became simpler, faster, and more convenient. Language as a whole has become streamlined. Periods have been removed from the standards of writing, as have the spaces in between words. The messages we receive are simply lines of characters followed by the name of the sender. Truly I am unsure as to the reasoning behind this concept of verbal communication. Our vocal chords have become like the vermiform appendix, an organ which once had a use but is meaningless in our current society. Even if one would have the absurd notion to once again create these ancient vibrations, we could not. The inner workings of our throats have become withered and useless. They serve merely as a connection between the head and the body. It is a flesh tube used to transport food to our insides and to send electrical signals to our fingers to continue the constant tap, tap, tapping away.

Bottled Water

I realized I kind of stopped giving descriptions to my entries a while ago. This one isn’t going to be much different.

There’s a company that’s in the business of selling the most necessary element for life encased in a tiny plastic bottle, supposedly designed for easy transport. This company, William’s Water Co., has had amazing success with their newest product. “William’s Water Experience.” Why is it an experience? Because that word will sprout money. People will want to experience the Experience simply for the sake of the experience. But this verbal sleight of hand is not the company’s achievement. The reason for the success of the Experience is the description it is given with the television spots, the magazine pages, the snippets before movies, and the giant boards which litter the sides of highways. The smiling faces, each ad has a different person but the faces remain the same, are what tell those watching the secrets behind the production of the Experience. The key aspect of the liquid is the flavor. It’s a familiar flavor, but on e which nobody can define. In the beginnings of these many ads they are told of other flavored drinks, sodas with their lack of nutrition, and flavored waters with their calorie count, but somehow the Experience is different. Not only does the experience provide a unique taste different than its sugary competitors, but it also lacks calories and is good for the body. It’s free, empty, no counting needed, drink as much as you like and never see your waist line increase, keep those skinny pants on, no worries about fat, cholesterol, sodium, potassium, drink on e with breakfast, with lunch, with dinner, with everything in between, for god’s sake drink. With its unique familiar flavor there is no other choice. They are told of a discovery which was made in Middle America. Donald Williams, Donny for short (they like the personal tone there), while playing with his kid in his back yard discovered a mysterious fount which is where the main supply of the Experience comes from. It is from this original fount which Donny first started supplying his newly formed company with its product of choice, with the Experience. And it is from this source that the water still springs from to this day. This being said, the story behind the Experience is true to an extent. Those who drink the Experience regularly always default back to the nostalgic feeling the taste gives them. Nobody has yet to pinpoint this reaction of the tongue because its origin has gone out of style. The taste is familiar because it is the taste of calcium carbonate, it is the taste of magnesium, it is the taste of fluoride. The Experience is a familiar experience because it’s what people find in pipes which connect to taps which stick out of sinks across the country.

Cell Phones

I see them as I walk to my current destination; others who have lost the ability to communicate. Walking along the cement runway their heads are aimed downward, their hands to their ears as they talk to the air. If a slight glimpse of another is caught, if a movement of the two holes in one’s head toward another is made, there is an instantaneous snapping of the neck. Their faces turned as they speak louder to their imaginary friends. This is their natural defense mechanism. It is how they let you know, “Leave me be, I’m busy. Too busy…busy…busy…busy.” I see these others doing as I am, but disconnected. With their faces down and their hands to their ears, holding mechanical devices which allow them to talk to their invisible friends.

“Hey…oh I didn’t want anything in particular…I was just bored.”

“Mmm hmm…yep…yea…sure…I don’t know…doesn’t matter.”

My vocal chords have remained still as no greetings are needed. No well wishes are given. “Morning, hey, *nod.” These do not exist anymore. The spoken greetings which were given to the people passed on a daily basis have become a nuisance. While approaching the door I need to enter I happen upon a rare sight. I see a single person standing, looking forward with no strange apparatus attached to either ear. It’s standing at the nearby street corner taking the occasional drag off of a lit cigarette placed between the index and middle fingers. I take this opportunity and stop next to it, amazed by the casualness with which it approaches eye contact. Upon lighting a cigarette of my own I attempt the impossible.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

I don't have a title for this one

This piece goes along with a the bit two posts ago

After finishing my lunch, I had begun to stare blankly at the pages of text lined up before my eyes. The din of the surrounding conversations had reached the point of nothingness, pure white noise. Not being able to make out a single voice, all meshed together. This is why I’ve always been able to study there; sitting there on the mercilessly hard chair, my arms resting on the sticky grey surface of the table. But I was into my second hour of reading. This may not seem like much, but with four hours of sleep and two classes left with a large portion of work in between, it was beginning to wear. I had been eating alone for a while at this point. Without actually reading I lost my thoughts in the white found in between the black.

Things happen. Joe has mostly night classes. Chuck doesn’t have class on Monday or Wednesday. I see Doug sometimes, but only for a few minutes. It works though. I can work between classes and relax after. With my classes done I can go to others houses, waste time at the diner, or simply go home and do. I haven’t talked to Luke in a while though. He transferred to main campus this semester and didn’t tell me. I guess he figured I knew. But we still talk. The internet with all its uses helps. He’s a stand up guy for a Catholic. I’ve known him since sixth grade. He’s the right wing fascist, I’m the godless libertarian. But we had gotten to know each other before that. Before politics and religion claimed the complete control over our lives which it tends to do in adulthood. We were kids freaking out over the latest leaked screenshots for an upcoming video game. It’s been about eight years. Years which led to a solid respect for both parties involved. I should talk to him more

With the screeching of a chair grinding on the tile floor I was snapped back into the cafeteria. 1:25. Class in thirty-five minutes. I decided to go to the nearest bathroom to make room for more coffee before taking the long way to class. I stood up, and as I put my coat on checked for my wallet, phone, and cigarettes. And as I picked up my bag I slowly made my way to my current destination. Inside the bathroom I’m alone. The quiet seemed odd after almost two hours of constant noise. Having made my way to the nearest stall, and with the door closed in front of me, I did what people do in bathroom stalls. My mind wandered to my phone. It was on silent so I slid the folding piece of electronics out of my pocket. 1:10, Joe. Having mentioned the day before that I may stop by after class, I knew the purpose of the call. Knowing how I am with remembering things, he called to make sure I was still on track. He called just to make sure I’d make a left instead of a right after my last class. I dialed his number. As the phone ringed, a person walked into the bathroom. I don’t know who, but I remember the sound of the door and the shadows of feet below the stall door. With a click Joe picked up his phone.

“Hey man, you called like twenty minutes ago, what’s up?”

“Did you hear? Luke’s dead.”

“Wait, Luke ___ Luke?”

“Yep, Friday, it was a car accident.”

And with that last word the little row of bars indicating my signal strength lost its smallest part and the call dropped, leaving me with only the shuffling of the person outside. I stared forward and understood nothing. I understand nothing.

Perspective

This piece is a bit more concept driven then my recent entries.

He walks from east to west, following the fiery conductor in the sky, the one who promised him an answer. Every night he sleeps in alleyways, on suburban sidewalks, and under trees. Then each morning he walks as before. Food is found when needed in dumpsters, from strangers both friendly and not so. Every day his actions only change on a superficial level. His actions are always meant to prolong survival only so his goal can be reached. Through dense cities and the forested nowhere he walks in search of his destination. Others have approached him and asked, “Where are you going in such a hurry?” To this he responds, “To the end of the world of course.” Confused the others continue, “But why and how?” He answers back, “When I reach the end, the cliff with nothing after, I’ll jump. How is unimportant, but I will.” Knowing the conversation will go no further, the others usually walk away confused, but already once again engrossed in their own problems. So, as before he walks, from east to west, in search of the end, always alone because nobody else has ever shown interest in the same end. Nobody else has the same desire because his goal is his own, just as each other has their own. For he only walks from east to west in his own mind. When compared to the others he sees himself as natural, east to west. But to others he strays north, he strays south, and to others still he does not move at all. And each other, in their own mind, in reference to each individual other is walking from east to west in natural harmony; from right to left in search for their own end.

The Service

He woke up early Saturday as both alarms set the previous night screamed their morning shriek. Knowing his mind would be less then functional after such a negligible amount of sleep, all of the morning steps had been prepared. Breakfast was arranged, coffee was ready to be made with the push of a little blue button, and the clothes for the day were thrown over the chair near next to the closet. An obligation set this early would usually be ignored, but this particular gathering held a good bit of importance in his mind. Mechanically, he made his way through the pre-set motions. Eating, drinking, showering. The finishing touch to the set of preparations was the clothing. Brown shoes capped off a pair of ironed khaki slacks. Atop this was placed a collared black shirt and dark tie which stuck out through the folds of a knee length raincoat. With his tie straightened and shirt tucked in he walked out the door. “It’s never good when I dress like this.”

Turning into the church about fifteen minutes before the designated time, the parking lot was still rather sparse. Once the car was situated in one of the first open parking spots, he sat staring at the old discolored steering wheel before him. After almost deciding to leave and abandon the whole situation, he opened the car door and planted his left foot into the slushy mess which covered sections of the pavement. While walking towards the entrance, a few others passed, none of them known. The crowd was larger then expected when he first entered the main doorway. As soon as he walked in, as he waited to sign his unknown name into the registry, he noticed what he assumed was the mother. She was standing at the entrance of the main room, eyes red, with her remaining son standing next to her blank faced. He had never actually met Luke’s parents. They had been friends in school, him and Luke, but he had been private that way. Luke didn’t like inviting people to his house. He never really knew why. The line of people in front was slowly walking past a display meant to honor. A television repeated a slide show of images, showing scenes from early childhood to early adulthood. He watched the screen for some time, his eyes constantly looking at the floor, and eventually making their way to her, standing there, wiping her red eyes. Following this was a large array of images. Pictures from every scenario imaginable and in the center Luke’s face looked out at the crowd. He had dealt with the news reasonably, but for some reason he couldn’t look at Luke’s face. The eyes in the images were what made his necktie too tight, his clothing too warm. Luke’s eyes were what agitated his own. And all the while his eyes constantly found their way to the floor, and to the woman standing across the room. The woman he was slowly making his way towards. As he reached the end of the display he slowed and pretended to look intently at the pictures in front of him, allowing others to keep moving ahead. Soon he had to move, and slowly he made his was with the rest towards the doorway into the chapel, past the woman. Within a few steps it was his turn to talk, his turn to say something. From his blank mind came, “You don’t know me, but I knew Luke.” He stood there looking at her face, and she said nothing in response. Instead she leaned forward, put her arms around his torso and hugged him. This physical contact was the catalyst. Seeing the face which had known nothing but grief for eight days followed by a simple act of comfort caused a shining wetness to form in his eyes. When the brief contact ended, he bit his lip and made his way to a seat near the back. He didn’t pay attention to much of the service. This time was spent lost in his own thoughts, with an occasional tear sliding from his now red eyes.

Break

The blue mist continually swirls around my body, flowing from the source in my palm. The smoke from the fire I have the power to control. I hold the burning embers to my face, allowing the stinging blue into my nose as it makes its way skyward. Shards are carefully picked off from the core and thrown to the ground by the cold evening wind. Shards of pure white heat freed from their slow torture. The wind makes the heart glow. It makes the center of the flame shine a bright orange and urges it along as it feeds on the rations provided. My eyes are then drawn to the others; the one’s standing around me. People, each one with the same power I have, each with their own similar flames in hand. One brings the flame close to his face towards his lips, dry from the winter weather. He breaths deep, drawing the force of the flame inside himself. He allows the painful blue smoke into his body, closes his eyes, and slowly releases the mist which finds itself merging with the blowing wind. It is at this time I take my own fire and draw it close. Doing as the fellow before me, I kiss the flame and breathe in the blue mist. I allow it to wind its way into my lounges, flowing freely in a mass of stinging potency. My throat newly scratched and ground by the moving heat craves water but is only greeted by the winter air which follows. And as quickly as it entered, I breathe out, releasing the smoldering blue heat now somehow different; different then before. Part of my inner sides leave in the swirling mass now dissipating in the dry moving air. With this last puff I throw my cigarette to the ground and proceed on my way.

Internal Dialogue

The more I read the next piece, the more I don't like it. I think it comes off as being somewhat pretentious, and the dialogue doesn't fit as well as I wanted it to. Anyway, here it is.

In the late afternoon of an average summer day, two figures walked. These two figures, outlines against the sky, made their way to the rocky edge of a cliff overlooking a pristine body of water; a lake with no turbulence or activity, a perfectly still glass surface. When the two finally reached the edge, a slight breeze wound itself between the now motionless figures. With the winds first contact, the right figures mouth began to move.

“Our political leaders are no longer voices of the many, concentrated into a single throat. Never-ending wars are waged in countries for personal gain. We claim to help, and yes we give, but our gifts bring no comfort. Soldiers die, civilians die, humans die as storms of metal blast through shields of flesh. We must bring change.”

By this time the wind was no longer present, and in this stillness clouds crept on the horizon. With the change going unnoticed, the mouth kept moving, while the other figure remained silent.

“We must bring change. But how can the right candidate be chosen with only two political parties? Such a binary solution to everything, conservative and liberal, left and right, right and wrong, you must belong to one. We see black and white when only grey exists. But more options would not change the control media has on the result. They choose who to cover, what to talk about, they choose whether to cover Brittany or Bush. We watch, and we listen.”

The clouds were now overhead. The sun no longer visible, a slight crack of thunder made its presence known in the distance. At this time, the left figures eyes made their way to the water below, its mouth still mute. The words kept coming.

“We watch and we listen. We do not wake up every morning to constant gunfire. We have no fear of exploding cars and pedestrians with AK’s as we get the morning paper, grumbling about the weather. We don’t fear the starvation of our children. We don’t have to worry about these things, yet we are not grateful. Appreciation for the constant supply of everyday needs is nowhere to be found. We have bad days while countries die.”

A slight drizzle began, as the light from the day was quickly fading. The wind, having picked up again, now whipped around the figures. Slowly, ever so slowly, a storm was constructing itself. The water below displayed no sign of movement as lightning flashed and newly wetted lips continued.

“We have bad days while countries die. We allow our rulers to take whatever actions will raise their revenue. Shirts are bought as children sweat. Diamonds are given in sync with a man’s dying groan. Every day we support the degradation of our fellow humans simply because we cannot see them. And even if one knows this, there is no response.”

By this time the rain became a downfall of torrential stature. All light from the day was gone, as the wind whipped the grass below the two figures feet. There was a constant swirling around the two, a constant attack from the outside towards the in. Rain. Wind. Thunder. Lightning. The sound continued.

“And even if one knows this, there is no response. No bad taste forms in the mouth; no possible regret for this action, the only response we know is lethargy. Our comfort is never threatened; we are never put into danger. Or even worse, one may feign compassion. There are those who acknowledge the situations and pout, if only to make themselves feel less sadistic. Self, self, a thousand times self.”

All vision was now gone. The storm reached its peak as the two figures still stood on the cliff, overlooking the lake. Within the din of the storm, with all senses obstructed, the second figure prepared a response. With a quick step, and a leap, the second figure cheered as it jumped off the ledge and dove down into the still motionless water below.

Breakfast

This one's a bit short, but it's still very new.

In the distance I can hear a bubbling. The sound of water heating, mixed with the steam which is making its way through the nearby door are signs that the concoction is complete. I can hear them inside, pouring the mixture into the designated containers, each destined to find its way to the assigned participant. The workers come out in waves carrying the liquid, dressed in identical uniforms. White on black, no color, that’s against regulation. And then it arrives. The first thing I notice is the smell. It has a surprisingly enjoyable smell, almost welcoming. This feeling is soon lost. Once it is laid before me, I can see its color; a solid, deep black through which nothing can be seen. Looking back I can see my reflection on the surface and next to this sits the mirrored face of the one who delivered the substance. She’s waiting to make sure I do it. She’s waiting to make sure I do what I agreed to do. At this time the ceramic basin is brought to my face. I can feel the heat pouring off of the liquid, covering my face in a wave of steam. It is then brought to my lips, and very slowly poured down my throat. The initial sensation is that of a stinging burn, a wave of heat which envelops my entire tongue. I’m lucky because this initial burn quickly makes my taste buds numb to the harsh bitter flavor it gives off. This burning then makes its way through my body into my stomach where it becomes a boiling addition to my acidic insides. After being given a moments rest following this initial exposure, the cup is once again brought to my mouth, the black substance a little less hot. It’s not as bad this time around. The server then leans down and tells me, “Careful now, the coffees fresh.”

So I guess I should actually start this thing. I'm not actually going to write my personal reactions concerning any specific topic; rather I'm going to post bits of writing. Each post will be the beginning of a short story, idea, or some kind of similar creative writing, with each piece hopefully being around one to two pages. My goal is to get feedback on the various pieces. And hopefully, along with this feedback you'll give me recommendations for change. The topics for each entry will be varied, some will be more abstract then others, but for each post I'm just looking for what you people like and dislike.