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 Posted: Sun Nov 12, 2006 10:13 pm
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My entire life; wasted in a futile search for the truth. The truth that had eluded me since I learned to think and rationalize. The truth that seems to haunt those who claim to have found it. I've searched more than I should have searched, that much is true.
The search began when I was a child. Neither my Mother or Father were willing to give me the answers that I was seeking, so I turned towards my friends and peers. They gave me twisted, unrealistic, unthought out forms of the information. I knew that it was all lies; made up because they wanted me to believe that they knew everything.
When my fruitless search for the truth took me into the overtrodden land of religion, was when the search ended; for awhile at least. I was told that the one who called himself God had the truth. So, I asked him what it was, but he was either deaf or ignoring me because I never got an answer. None the less, I believed for a time that the truth was mine, because the enforcers of the church's morals told me so. They said that since I came every sunday, and had let this being who called himself our saviour but would never show his face invade my soul that the search was over and all the truths that I could ever want were right in front of me.
Years went by before I realized that all that I had done by allowing this God character sink his fangs into my spirit was allow it to be tainted. So, I severed my connections with this semi-malevolent bieng and began to forge my own path. A path to find the questions that would lead me to the information that I sought so diligently.
The first question that I was able to aquire was "Why?". This questions served my needs for a time being but it was far to common an inquery and thus wore out too fast to serve my purposes. The questions that lie beyond that small tidbit were far more elusive; their answers even more so.
However, I pressed onward, for that is all that I knew how to do. It wasn't long before I happened upon my next question. "What is the answer?". It was so basic, but it seemed to serve my needs perfectly. I cherished this question as if it were a child. For too long though, eventually, due to misuse, the question became tainted and had to be cast asunder.
It was a few more months after this that I realised why I couldn't find the questions or their answers; because there was no such thing as truth. Tre thing that I had spent my life seeking was fictional, in all meanings of the word.
This revelation devistated me at first, but after awhile I came to realize that if the truth is fiction then fiction must be the only path to truth. The only way that I could have what my very bones ached for was to immerse myself in a bottomless pit of fatasy and unreality.
The number ninteen served as the key that turned the lock on this false door. It wasn't long before I saw this number everywhere, just like in a book. It began to engulf my mind and stand out as something of true significance. I knew that it was just blue car syndrome at first, but after awhile those rational thoughts ceased and all that was left of my once logical and reasoning mind was a machine designed to churn out things that spat in the face of logic.
I tried to redeem myself from this state but soon found that it could be put to use. When I closed my eyes I saw things. These things began to blend with fiction in my mind and what most people describe as light headedness or detachment became a norm for me. I walked in a daze for so long that what was real began to seem fake. The missing links in the chain seemed to be the strongest of them all.
Not long after this daze was finnally lifted, I found another "Why?". I was determined not wear out this question, it would be used only when needed. It's such a pretty thing; this "Why?". It reminds me of a simpler time and a future that I can see whenever I open another set of eyes.
The eyes don't belong to me. They are owned by another, one far more honorable than I. However, I somehow came into possesion of these magnificent orbs. They let me see things that other people turn away from, sometimes in anger, sometimes in fear. They redefined my reality and reshaped my mind. I now know that the truth isn't fictional. Something that is fictional exists as a form of information; the truth simply doesn't exist.
^ The result of a collaboration between me, my good buddy sleep deprevation, and pain killers. If you didn't enjoy this you are a communist.
I'm kidding.
Or am I?
Commie b*****d.
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Posted: Mon Nov 13, 2006 5:22 am
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Posted: Mon Nov 13, 2006 6:13 am
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Posted: Mon Nov 13, 2006 9:02 am
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Posted: Mon Nov 13, 2006 10:09 am
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Posted: Mon Nov 13, 2006 10:14 am
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Posted: Mon Nov 13, 2006 12:24 pm
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Posted: Mon Nov 13, 2006 5:23 pm
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Posted: Tue Nov 14, 2006 3:06 pm
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Posted: Tue Nov 14, 2006 3:13 pm
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Posted: Tue Nov 14, 2006 3:21 pm
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Posted: Tue Nov 14, 2006 3:28 pm
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Posted: Tue Nov 14, 2006 4:31 pm
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Posted: Tue Nov 14, 2006 4:50 pm
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Reese_Roper KirbyVictorious spelling whore. Anyway, people started calling me a communist when I nicknamed Kamile as "Kami" for short (apparently it sounds like "commy", freaking idiots >.> ) I mean, they don't have southern accents, and they definitely don't speak English. What does it matter? I dunno. Sounds like what they do to my name. Tell me I must be a druggie 'cause my name is the same as one of the Presleys. People associate weird things with names.
And actually, I'm called a nazi because I'm German, and I had a relative who was a nazi. Luckily, people who know me and don't base me on my family history and heritage don't care, but those who do... well, you can get the picture.
sucks. I'm German too, but the descent is vague. (Great-grandfather was German and married a Native American...interesting results, no?)
I blame DNA for my problems. *huff*
*grrr* no one calls my Kamile a communist! She's...............
...........................an anarchist?
I don't know. She isn't anything. But calling her one is like calling ME one, and I AM NOT. *rawr* |
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