sian1357
09-26-2009, 08:16 PM
“They say the world is round, but roundness implies totality and perfection, neither of which traits the world can claim to posses. The world is far from whole; split, splintered and shattered as it is by greed, lust, jealousy and pride. When mankind has been eradicated, then the world may begin to attain its perfection, but until then, it is being dragged deeper and deeper into the pits of hellish desolation.”
He looked down at this depressing piece of fact that He had just written and sighed. Lifting the pen and resting it on the page He thought for a good way to continue. Nothing came to mind and He sighed again. Perhaps being an author was not His calling after all. He couldn’t even spell very well and had in fact spent most of His life misspelling the word “very” itself. He wished someone had had the decency to tell Him sooner.
Having given up his hopes of literary success, He moved himself over to the sofa to watch another bored presenter, clearly chosen for her looks rather than her ability to act concerned over bad new read the news at him. The presenter’s habit of moving from reports of starving children and murdered families to stories of kittens being found in some old lady’s attic faster than she could blink sickened Him.
Giving up on this second choice of time usage He turned off the TV and resigned Himself to boredom. Closing His eyes, He daydreamed for a while, seeing images of well known faces, locations and fantasies dart behind His closed eyelids. Finally managing to choose one, He sank into a relaxed doze.
“They say that heaven is perfect. How can that be? Since nothing is perfect when I die I’d rather have ‘nothing’ itself.”
His second attempt at written genius was no more uplifting than the first he found. He realised it was in fact over-optimistic to believe anything would have changed overnight. He wondered if having some kind of “magic pen” would help. No, He thought, magic would probably not be of much assistance on account of not existing. He wondered if all people thought like this? Strange circles and reassurances of the real and unreal, although it was hard to differentiate sometimes. That make believe world that existed just behind his eyes was so lifelike at times, the world where lived God and perfection, people who weren’t selfish and the woman He wanted to marry.
He switched on the TV, groaning as the world crushingly annoying new presenter flicked into life. Changing the channels he settled on some terrible program designed to make Him hate Himself, His home, His job, His Government or some other race of people than His own. Television these days was always this kind of prejudiced rubbish, although thinking about it He could not remember a time when it wasn’t. Even as a child, then shows had been the same. On a spur of the moment decision, He unplugged and turned the screen around to face the wall. Blinking at His own strange action, and wondering what He had planned to achieve by doing it, He looked around the room and his eyes fell upon the only book in the room. He was not in general the reading type, (He was not the type for anything, it must be said) and this specimen of the art of literacy had been on this shelf for a good few years, never thought of, and never read. The book was thick and old, and He lay back on the sofa as He began to read.
Thirty minutes later He was snoring loudly.
“They say a book is the greatest weapon against intolerance and ignorance. This is a lie. Reading is no better than any other form of media. The mere fact that the ignorance’s and intolerance’s are written in word appears to blind people to their presence. Reading is no weapon for anything but boredom.”
He wondered if He was getting better at writing these notes. He suspected not. His completion of the book from the shelf a few day previously had left Him angry and jaded. If He had wanted to feel like this, he would have watched the news presenter for a full half hour of the news program.
Having decided that reading was not in His interests, He found He needed a new way to spend His time. Writing was not working out for Him as the fairly essential parts of a book, the storyline and the characters, still eluded Him. Years of pessimism had forced Him to run out of ideas here. Racking His brains He tried to think what other people did in their free time. Reading, writing, plays, movies, His concentration increased, dancing, charity work, seeing friends, playing sports. His list so far was something to be proud of He thought, counting the different pastimes on his fingers. At seven fingers He thought He must have forgotten something.
With a list of ideas scrawled onto a scrap of paper, He picked one to try at random. Picking up the phone He made His arrangements and went to bed that night with a small glimmer of optimism.
“They say exercise is healthy, but it most certainly does not leave you feeling healthy. Out of breath, sweaty and tired are not desirable attributes. Surely it is better not to take a self defence class so that if you are attacked on your way home, you are not already out of breath from the class?”
He was not in a good mood. His attempt at joining a gym for a hobby wasn’t enjoyable at all, and as He was fairly certain that was the point of a hobby, exercising was deemed a failure. Grumbling He sat Himself down on the sofa thinking that if He had wanted to feel fat, unfit and inadequate, while looking His least attractive in front of the young healthy bodies on the exercise machines about Him, He could have gone, well, He wasn’t sure where, but He certainly wouldn’t be going there.
“They say that charity is in the heart of man, but charity is the farthest thing from the heart. Conscience and pride of self image are nearer that all important organ, beating their poison throughout the body”
Today’s literary snippet seemed even more depressing than ever before. His day had not been enjoyable, and on finding, early that morning, that helping children was not His forte, He had had to endure the entire six hours of volunteer work with a thumping headache and child vomit on His shoes. He had known that this would not be to His taste before He had even tried it, but had put this down to His melancholy personality, a mistake He would not be making again.
He found that there were not many hobbies left to try on His list, which had admittedly grown a fair amount since last mentioned, as such things have a tendency to do, but He sincerely hoped He would find something He liked. Sitting on the sofa getting angry at the news presenter on the TV was not what he wanted to do with His life anymore.
He picked up the book from floor, where it had fallen and not been retrieved and flipped to the last page. On reading this ending He decided His first sentiments about reading had in fact been correct.
“They say variety is the soul of pleasure, but the soul does not exist. This in turn implies that variety and pleasure are in no way related. Variety creates nothing but confusion and fatigue. Variety is against human nature itself. By changing all the time the mind becomes muddled, mixing memories together until everything is one large blur of wasted time.”
He had tried all the pastimes on His list and more now, each less interesting than the last. Pessimism was ruining His life he decided. There was nothing He wanted to do, and nothing He had to do. Life was back to its lonely, boring old ways and all He had to show for His adventures was a few paragraphs of attempted literary debut.
He looked down at this depressing piece of fact that He had just written and sighed. Lifting the pen and resting it on the page He thought for a good way to continue. Nothing came to mind and He sighed again. Perhaps being an author was not His calling after all. He couldn’t even spell very well and had in fact spent most of His life misspelling the word “very” itself. He wished someone had had the decency to tell Him sooner.
Having given up his hopes of literary success, He moved himself over to the sofa to watch another bored presenter, clearly chosen for her looks rather than her ability to act concerned over bad new read the news at him. The presenter’s habit of moving from reports of starving children and murdered families to stories of kittens being found in some old lady’s attic faster than she could blink sickened Him.
Giving up on this second choice of time usage He turned off the TV and resigned Himself to boredom. Closing His eyes, He daydreamed for a while, seeing images of well known faces, locations and fantasies dart behind His closed eyelids. Finally managing to choose one, He sank into a relaxed doze.
“They say that heaven is perfect. How can that be? Since nothing is perfect when I die I’d rather have ‘nothing’ itself.”
His second attempt at written genius was no more uplifting than the first he found. He realised it was in fact over-optimistic to believe anything would have changed overnight. He wondered if having some kind of “magic pen” would help. No, He thought, magic would probably not be of much assistance on account of not existing. He wondered if all people thought like this? Strange circles and reassurances of the real and unreal, although it was hard to differentiate sometimes. That make believe world that existed just behind his eyes was so lifelike at times, the world where lived God and perfection, people who weren’t selfish and the woman He wanted to marry.
He switched on the TV, groaning as the world crushingly annoying new presenter flicked into life. Changing the channels he settled on some terrible program designed to make Him hate Himself, His home, His job, His Government or some other race of people than His own. Television these days was always this kind of prejudiced rubbish, although thinking about it He could not remember a time when it wasn’t. Even as a child, then shows had been the same. On a spur of the moment decision, He unplugged and turned the screen around to face the wall. Blinking at His own strange action, and wondering what He had planned to achieve by doing it, He looked around the room and his eyes fell upon the only book in the room. He was not in general the reading type, (He was not the type for anything, it must be said) and this specimen of the art of literacy had been on this shelf for a good few years, never thought of, and never read. The book was thick and old, and He lay back on the sofa as He began to read.
Thirty minutes later He was snoring loudly.
“They say a book is the greatest weapon against intolerance and ignorance. This is a lie. Reading is no better than any other form of media. The mere fact that the ignorance’s and intolerance’s are written in word appears to blind people to their presence. Reading is no weapon for anything but boredom.”
He wondered if He was getting better at writing these notes. He suspected not. His completion of the book from the shelf a few day previously had left Him angry and jaded. If He had wanted to feel like this, he would have watched the news presenter for a full half hour of the news program.
Having decided that reading was not in His interests, He found He needed a new way to spend His time. Writing was not working out for Him as the fairly essential parts of a book, the storyline and the characters, still eluded Him. Years of pessimism had forced Him to run out of ideas here. Racking His brains He tried to think what other people did in their free time. Reading, writing, plays, movies, His concentration increased, dancing, charity work, seeing friends, playing sports. His list so far was something to be proud of He thought, counting the different pastimes on his fingers. At seven fingers He thought He must have forgotten something.
With a list of ideas scrawled onto a scrap of paper, He picked one to try at random. Picking up the phone He made His arrangements and went to bed that night with a small glimmer of optimism.
“They say exercise is healthy, but it most certainly does not leave you feeling healthy. Out of breath, sweaty and tired are not desirable attributes. Surely it is better not to take a self defence class so that if you are attacked on your way home, you are not already out of breath from the class?”
He was not in a good mood. His attempt at joining a gym for a hobby wasn’t enjoyable at all, and as He was fairly certain that was the point of a hobby, exercising was deemed a failure. Grumbling He sat Himself down on the sofa thinking that if He had wanted to feel fat, unfit and inadequate, while looking His least attractive in front of the young healthy bodies on the exercise machines about Him, He could have gone, well, He wasn’t sure where, but He certainly wouldn’t be going there.
“They say that charity is in the heart of man, but charity is the farthest thing from the heart. Conscience and pride of self image are nearer that all important organ, beating their poison throughout the body”
Today’s literary snippet seemed even more depressing than ever before. His day had not been enjoyable, and on finding, early that morning, that helping children was not His forte, He had had to endure the entire six hours of volunteer work with a thumping headache and child vomit on His shoes. He had known that this would not be to His taste before He had even tried it, but had put this down to His melancholy personality, a mistake He would not be making again.
He found that there were not many hobbies left to try on His list, which had admittedly grown a fair amount since last mentioned, as such things have a tendency to do, but He sincerely hoped He would find something He liked. Sitting on the sofa getting angry at the news presenter on the TV was not what he wanted to do with His life anymore.
He picked up the book from floor, where it had fallen and not been retrieved and flipped to the last page. On reading this ending He decided His first sentiments about reading had in fact been correct.
“They say variety is the soul of pleasure, but the soul does not exist. This in turn implies that variety and pleasure are in no way related. Variety creates nothing but confusion and fatigue. Variety is against human nature itself. By changing all the time the mind becomes muddled, mixing memories together until everything is one large blur of wasted time.”
He had tried all the pastimes on His list and more now, each less interesting than the last. Pessimism was ruining His life he decided. There was nothing He wanted to do, and nothing He had to do. Life was back to its lonely, boring old ways and all He had to show for His adventures was a few paragraphs of attempted literary debut.