Here I am. The edge. I'm looking down. I can't do this. I'm scared of falling, and dying, and the height makes me nauseous, but I'm here for a goddamn reason, and so help me, you non-existent deity, I will fulfil the purpose that I so audaciously claim that must occur.
I must die.
There is no question. There is no purpose for my existence, but to be the pale, faded puppet master of some aimless cult of fools. That is not me. Whatever it is that I need to have, as opposed to this, this most terrible of ways, I have lost it. I don't know what I need. Whatever it is that I've got to do is nothing more than the simple imperative to write the last chapter and jump off of this very high, very daunting cliff.
I've decided to consume the last of my drugs en-masse, in case I don't do this... Either way, I'm liable to be dead.
Dead.
Why do I want to die?
Liberation.
Liberation from what?
Myself.
Myself... Screw that guy. That guy sucks. That guy can go and jump off a cliff... God damn this man and his horrid puns and how he resides within me, as me, in the same body, but he gives me these dirty, monstrous looks when I peer into the mirror.
I see a monster in me, and a mob of victims behind me.
If you look hard enough, maybe you can see me in the dirt.
Adieu.
Sunday 9 June 2013
Monday 3 June 2013
Strangulation and Insufflation
Alyxandr is dead. Not literally, but he became irrelevant. We got tired of his tyrannical hold on us. Now they have a new tyrant. Me. Me, and my biting sarcasm and how little a damn I give. I just want to die. They think that I can lead them. I can't lead myself.
I have been snorting the ground up remnants of way-aged medicine. It numbs me. Frees me. The navigators don't know. I have won.
The forest looks more grim than ever. Death and pestilence seem to follow me by my boot heels. I am frightened. The end beckons.
Lift me, yon mariner o'th'wind.
Pick me up.
Soar, soar, then drop me.
Drop me on the cold, hard dirt.
I don't think death is the answer, but I think it is an answer. Not the answer everybody wants, and most certainly one that would lead me to fail a test. Life is just a test. Or a game. Maybe it's a game.
Maybe it's a game jacked up onto the hardest circumstances, where everybody is against you, even when they are with you, and everybody is essentially fighting for scraps, whether they live in the most lavish of estates, or whether they excrete in the rags they live in because they are too full of mange to control themselves.
I want to quit. For whatever reason, I can't.
Maybe it's some sense of duty. Maybe I'm scared. I don't want to lead these people but they demand it of me now.
Why can they not govern themselves? I have no clue.
I have been snorting the ground up remnants of way-aged medicine. It numbs me. Frees me. The navigators don't know. I have won.
The forest looks more grim than ever. Death and pestilence seem to follow me by my boot heels. I am frightened. The end beckons.
Lift me, yon mariner o'th'wind.
Pick me up.
Soar, soar, then drop me.
Drop me on the cold, hard dirt.
I don't think death is the answer, but I think it is an answer. Not the answer everybody wants, and most certainly one that would lead me to fail a test. Life is just a test. Or a game. Maybe it's a game.
Maybe it's a game jacked up onto the hardest circumstances, where everybody is against you, even when they are with you, and everybody is essentially fighting for scraps, whether they live in the most lavish of estates, or whether they excrete in the rags they live in because they are too full of mange to control themselves.
I want to quit. For whatever reason, I can't.
Maybe it's some sense of duty. Maybe I'm scared. I don't want to lead these people but they demand it of me now.
Why can they not govern themselves? I have no clue.
Wednesday 13 March 2013
Sanity, Sobering Times
I think this island is making me go crazy. I can't focus, and everything feels so significant and heavy, and I just want to be back on that god forsaken boat. Alyxandr might be planning a coup d'etat. He's training my people to fight... Not that we would put up much resistance.
I thought I heard voices while I was walking through a forested area. I turned every which way, and nobody was there. I started seeing things too. Like skeletons, and broken weapons on the ground. I haven't alluded to such visions and sounds in my interactions at the times, but I might soon. My advisor suggests that I write more. I think it might help. I've begun writing auxiliary pieces. Reviews, poetry, things like that.
I remember a few lines from some old poetry books.
Hope?
Nope.
How clever, isn't it? I think it's a little cheesy, but it's surely clever. I find solace in the pessimism of others. It helps me feel a little better about myself. I guess that's a little conceited, but maybe I should elaborate.
I find solace in the pessimism of others because it makes the rest of the world seem human, and prone to the same errors that I make. Errors like letting Alyxandr guide my people.
A child asked me what year it is a few days ago. I hadn't really kept track personally, but I knew there was a log of something as basic as that. I approached them yesterday.
"It's 2046."
The child thanked me, and played with their friends. I stood there and thought the following:
"Wow, it's been a while since we've been out here."
"I've been eating nothing but fish for 30 years."
"I haven't been in a relationship for at least 35 years."
"I'm alone, and I smell like 30 years of fish, and all I can brag about is how I piloted a ramshackle ship that hauls refugees around."
"I hate my life."
Then I went on the previously described walk through the forest, and found myself terrified by my vivid imagination.
I just want the world to stop, and then I want to get off.
I thought I heard voices while I was walking through a forested area. I turned every which way, and nobody was there. I started seeing things too. Like skeletons, and broken weapons on the ground. I haven't alluded to such visions and sounds in my interactions at the times, but I might soon. My advisor suggests that I write more. I think it might help. I've begun writing auxiliary pieces. Reviews, poetry, things like that.
I remember a few lines from some old poetry books.
Hope?
Nope.
How clever, isn't it? I think it's a little cheesy, but it's surely clever. I find solace in the pessimism of others. It helps me feel a little better about myself. I guess that's a little conceited, but maybe I should elaborate.
I find solace in the pessimism of others because it makes the rest of the world seem human, and prone to the same errors that I make. Errors like letting Alyxandr guide my people.
A child asked me what year it is a few days ago. I hadn't really kept track personally, but I knew there was a log of something as basic as that. I approached them yesterday.
"It's 2046."
The child thanked me, and played with their friends. I stood there and thought the following:
"Wow, it's been a while since we've been out here."
"I've been eating nothing but fish for 30 years."
"I haven't been in a relationship for at least 35 years."
"I'm alone, and I smell like 30 years of fish, and all I can brag about is how I piloted a ramshackle ship that hauls refugees around."
"I hate my life."
Then I went on the previously described walk through the forest, and found myself terrified by my vivid imagination.
I just want the world to stop, and then I want to get off.
Wednesday 20 February 2013
A Few Weeks
It's been a little while since we've hit the shoreline, and none of us intend on getting back on the boat for a while. It was cramped, busy, loud, and even after almost a decade sailing that god forsaken wreck, I still got a little seasick once in a while. No bother though.
It's been even longer since the motherland got flooded. The waters rose, and none of us were really ready. There was no time to set up anything more advanced than an old junk ship rig on a dilapidated (The original owner called it 'weathered') ship; we called it Henrietta. It sailed well and got us around the now archipelago-like seas.
We realized that we would sink if we didn't float, so we got a community together and educated ourselves. We ran the ship like a democracy. The navigators had the permanent positions because they proved that they could sail and scout the ships, but my position is electoral. It feels like a dictatorship though, when nobody else wants the position. I've heard people whisper that I'm a little flannel-mouthed, but if they think they know better, then why the hell aren't they taking the position? I'd gladly step down, but I think if I did, they'd tear me to bits and I'd be gone up the flume.
A week into hitting the shore, and we're starting to fell some of the trees. If we can make a few shelters, not everybody has to sleep on a beached ship. The local fauna here is fairly harmless too. If one remains silent enough, they'll approach. I was expecting more violent creatures, but birds, deer, and other woodland creatures seem to be prospering. With their prosperity comes ours, because we're all beyond sick of eating fish. Morning, afternoon, evening. Fish, fish, and guess what? More fish.
Deer tastes a little gamy, but at least it's not fish.
Alyxandr is keeping up his training regimen. It hasn't proved too useful insofar as that we haven't had to defend ourselves, or attack other intelligent groups, but if it makes him happy, and it makes other people happy, who am I to stop them? I do think he's taking it a little bit too far sometimes.
Anyways, it's regrettable that I can't write more often. Too many damn irons in the fire. Big irons, small irons, but they're all flaming hot, and it's monopolizing my time far more than I'd expect. Debates and strife over food rations, water rations, who does what work, etcetera, etcetera, blah, blah, blah.
I'm a little sentimental about when there was a time that I was just a guy with a good idea. Nobody screaming in my ears about how they think I'm wrong, or that somebody else wronged them.
I guess I'll pack in my horns and hope nobody puts a spoke in the wheels any time soon.
It's been even longer since the motherland got flooded. The waters rose, and none of us were really ready. There was no time to set up anything more advanced than an old junk ship rig on a dilapidated (The original owner called it 'weathered') ship; we called it Henrietta. It sailed well and got us around the now archipelago-like seas.
We realized that we would sink if we didn't float, so we got a community together and educated ourselves. We ran the ship like a democracy. The navigators had the permanent positions because they proved that they could sail and scout the ships, but my position is electoral. It feels like a dictatorship though, when nobody else wants the position. I've heard people whisper that I'm a little flannel-mouthed, but if they think they know better, then why the hell aren't they taking the position? I'd gladly step down, but I think if I did, they'd tear me to bits and I'd be gone up the flume.
A week into hitting the shore, and we're starting to fell some of the trees. If we can make a few shelters, not everybody has to sleep on a beached ship. The local fauna here is fairly harmless too. If one remains silent enough, they'll approach. I was expecting more violent creatures, but birds, deer, and other woodland creatures seem to be prospering. With their prosperity comes ours, because we're all beyond sick of eating fish. Morning, afternoon, evening. Fish, fish, and guess what? More fish.
Deer tastes a little gamy, but at least it's not fish.
Alyxandr is keeping up his training regimen. It hasn't proved too useful insofar as that we haven't had to defend ourselves, or attack other intelligent groups, but if it makes him happy, and it makes other people happy, who am I to stop them? I do think he's taking it a little bit too far sometimes.
Anyways, it's regrettable that I can't write more often. Too many damn irons in the fire. Big irons, small irons, but they're all flaming hot, and it's monopolizing my time far more than I'd expect. Debates and strife over food rations, water rations, who does what work, etcetera, etcetera, blah, blah, blah.
I'm a little sentimental about when there was a time that I was just a guy with a good idea. Nobody screaming in my ears about how they think I'm wrong, or that somebody else wronged them.
I guess I'll pack in my horns and hope nobody puts a spoke in the wheels any time soon.
Now, this doesn't look anything like our ship, or our shore, but I like the picture.
Wednesday 6 February 2013
Not Much Harm
It's frustrating, being incapable of maintaining ones composure in the morning. I guess it sort of feeds itself... I woke up this morning, amazingly not roused by the din of boat workers milling about the halls and deck of our ship. I wasn't so angered today, thankfully. The news I got today sweetened it even more.
We're approaching land. Land!
We've sought land for so long, and persisted through many years of isolation. Refugees stuck on the waters joined us sometimes, but it was usually another group seeking to rob us of our supplies. The diverse population we maintain has allowed us all to survive so long here. Different skills, different ideas. It staves off the insanity that creeps in from desolation and the feeling of having no other option.
I'm glad that my position doesn't require me interacting with the common people residing and/or working on our ship. The only people I talk to are the navigators, and the refugee from a shipwreck who understands... "Military Tactics". My native people aren't familiar with physical violence. We're not above others, and may mentally abuse our fellow man, but we don't physically harm our fellow man.
This refugee... Alyxandr, I believe. He's a good man and he means well. Gets angry though. And he's not familiar with our technologies. But he's training a small group of my men on how to deal with piracy, and "Military Tactics"-like knowledge. It's caused a vast increase in idea flow. I'm glad for this as well, but for now, the land is near. I estimate that it will be another day before we hit land, maybe a day extra to find suitable land for an impromptu docking?
One of the navigators asked me if I do anything to keep my ideas recorded. I didn't, seeing as I don't really need to. They advised me to do so, preaching of vast benefits and clarity. I couldn't see the harm in trying, and so I'm here, writing this.
I've decided to include sketches into my notes similar to the one below.
We're approaching land. Land!
We've sought land for so long, and persisted through many years of isolation. Refugees stuck on the waters joined us sometimes, but it was usually another group seeking to rob us of our supplies. The diverse population we maintain has allowed us all to survive so long here. Different skills, different ideas. It staves off the insanity that creeps in from desolation and the feeling of having no other option.
I'm glad that my position doesn't require me interacting with the common people residing and/or working on our ship. The only people I talk to are the navigators, and the refugee from a shipwreck who understands... "Military Tactics". My native people aren't familiar with physical violence. We're not above others, and may mentally abuse our fellow man, but we don't physically harm our fellow man.
This refugee... Alyxandr, I believe. He's a good man and he means well. Gets angry though. And he's not familiar with our technologies. But he's training a small group of my men on how to deal with piracy, and "Military Tactics"-like knowledge. It's caused a vast increase in idea flow. I'm glad for this as well, but for now, the land is near. I estimate that it will be another day before we hit land, maybe a day extra to find suitable land for an impromptu docking?
One of the navigators asked me if I do anything to keep my ideas recorded. I didn't, seeing as I don't really need to. They advised me to do so, preaching of vast benefits and clarity. I couldn't see the harm in trying, and so I'm here, writing this.
I've decided to include sketches into my notes similar to the one below.
It's what I think the land is going to look like.
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