Kazmiz
01-09-2007, 07:08 PM
Three paragraphs and one line, hence the name. I was bored one night so I started to randomly write stuff, and I came up with a nice little rant, that (supposedly) belongs to one of my characters. :P Enjoy.
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I looked at my computer screen for a second time as I thought about the answer, but what came to mind wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. I imagined my distorted reflection in the eyes of the person I loved, and the image was strangely pleasant, but I didn’t know if it was because of the colour of her eyes or because of my own illness. I had been suffering from it for many years, something that almost certainly did not belong to me originally, but which wanted to at all costs. Perhaps I, too, wanted it. But only when she was around.
I asked myself her name many times, but I never managed to snatch it from the clutches of my not-yet-fully-developed psyche. It was like a lost memory, forgotten, but still there, simply out of my reach. So I tried, of course, to extend my reach, but I found that it was too arduous a task for a person like me. It was too much. Simply too much, a quite complacent phrase for the meaning it has. But in the end, what’s the point of trying to change? We all are what we are. We. Me. You. Unfortunately these are just words, empty tags compared to the reality of our existence. At least that’s what we perceive, our existence that is. And we try to prove it, even by risking death. Who doesn’t know life can’t know death, so what’s the point of living forever?
I’m deviating from my topic. Such thoughts often run about inside in my mind, as if they wanted to test my convictions. Well, this is what I think: there is no ‘I’. There is only the illusion of individuality. In the end we all come from one thing, and sooner or later, we’ll return to it. It’s human to not want to disappear; after all, humans are animals, and we share their instinct for self-preservation. If you think about it, it really seems that we are addicted to this world, to the things that compose it and that condition our existence, to our ‘basic programming’ or ‘source code’ if you will. The truth is that we’re trapped inside a paradox. God made man, and men refuse to do it for they are not God, but I ask you. Who created me if not my parents? Who shaped my mind if not those who were around me? It’s the human that creates, it’s the human that destroys, and in the end it will all go back to how it was in the beginning, but not by the hands of an invincible, eternal and self-contradictory being. If you think about it, God is like an artist that can’t accept the failure of his works. He tries to shape it the way he wants, but he does not realize something: once you hit a slab of marble, it cracks – one mistake and the sculpture is destined to destruction. You wanted to know the fate of your world? Well there you go. If not because of God, it will be because of man, he who for his happiness will destroy as well as create, but resistance is useless. What has a beginning must also have an end. How close is ours?
Do not try to answer. It is futile.
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I looked at my computer screen for a second time as I thought about the answer, but what came to mind wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. I imagined my distorted reflection in the eyes of the person I loved, and the image was strangely pleasant, but I didn’t know if it was because of the colour of her eyes or because of my own illness. I had been suffering from it for many years, something that almost certainly did not belong to me originally, but which wanted to at all costs. Perhaps I, too, wanted it. But only when she was around.
I asked myself her name many times, but I never managed to snatch it from the clutches of my not-yet-fully-developed psyche. It was like a lost memory, forgotten, but still there, simply out of my reach. So I tried, of course, to extend my reach, but I found that it was too arduous a task for a person like me. It was too much. Simply too much, a quite complacent phrase for the meaning it has. But in the end, what’s the point of trying to change? We all are what we are. We. Me. You. Unfortunately these are just words, empty tags compared to the reality of our existence. At least that’s what we perceive, our existence that is. And we try to prove it, even by risking death. Who doesn’t know life can’t know death, so what’s the point of living forever?
I’m deviating from my topic. Such thoughts often run about inside in my mind, as if they wanted to test my convictions. Well, this is what I think: there is no ‘I’. There is only the illusion of individuality. In the end we all come from one thing, and sooner or later, we’ll return to it. It’s human to not want to disappear; after all, humans are animals, and we share their instinct for self-preservation. If you think about it, it really seems that we are addicted to this world, to the things that compose it and that condition our existence, to our ‘basic programming’ or ‘source code’ if you will. The truth is that we’re trapped inside a paradox. God made man, and men refuse to do it for they are not God, but I ask you. Who created me if not my parents? Who shaped my mind if not those who were around me? It’s the human that creates, it’s the human that destroys, and in the end it will all go back to how it was in the beginning, but not by the hands of an invincible, eternal and self-contradictory being. If you think about it, God is like an artist that can’t accept the failure of his works. He tries to shape it the way he wants, but he does not realize something: once you hit a slab of marble, it cracks – one mistake and the sculpture is destined to destruction. You wanted to know the fate of your world? Well there you go. If not because of God, it will be because of man, he who for his happiness will destroy as well as create, but resistance is useless. What has a beginning must also have an end. How close is ours?
Do not try to answer. It is futile.