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life, like beer, is merely borrowed.
Don Reed
There is no truth...
@ juicy mood
Mar 07 2006, 23:26 (UTC+0) | 
Aritst: Unknown -- [insert comment here] |
CyberHamster writes: --
The darkness had eyes, and they were all looking at him. He faced a
fearful prospect: to examine himself, his own beliefs; to step out
beyond the support of faith and into the world of necessary
uncertainty. To reach that point where logic could help no longer,
where it failed to distinguish between any of the multitudinous
possibilities. To actually, and finally, live.
Suddenly it
all made sense; suddenly he understood himself. The desperation, the
determination, the need to envision escape from that most depressing
facet of the human condition. An end before the end is reached, but
they say perfection is its own reward. He wondered, though, By whose
reckoning?
A thousand images and voices assaulted his mind,
yet they never made sense when he tried to put them all together, as if
each one carried with it a filter of emotions, of history, of hate;
rendering the others insane. He turned to face the window, the rain
metamorphosing it into a picture of vertical static.
Horror painted his features, as he realised what was happening: the
future slipping through our fingers, watching the flickering screens
that tell us what to believe with a child's devotion; stealing our own
tomorrow without even noticing what we've lost. A sudden desire to
distance himself, to get away from his own legacy, welled up within
him; and so he ran.
A harshly lit cafe, a brief respite from
the driving rain. A cup of coffee, refuge against exhaustion. A smile
of thanks to a cheerful face, then back out and into the dark. Feet
thumping the road to keep time with his furious thoughts, and eyes
burning with righteous anger. A sidewalk, a change in atmosphere; an
urban scene, a park with a swing, a bench.
The world floated
around him, a thousand panes of shattered glass, ready to fall to
pieces. The rain hammered at his head, in violent counterpoint to his
own pounding thoughts. The cold gnawed at his hands, shaking in
resonance with his beating heart.
He wanted to scream -
that none of this made any sense, that nothing anybody did mattered,
because nobody would understand anybody else, nobody could understand
anybody else. He wanted to cry - the grief of stupidity made him retch,
so deeply did his sadness wound his heart. He wanted to laugh - the
irony made him curl his lip at the obscure humour that must inevitably
be found in such situations. He wanted to run - away from everybody
else, away from himself.
The shadows played across his
features, his soaking wet hair dripping water down his face; the face
of a young man torn between duty and futility, between sadness and
acceptance, between apathy and hope. It was then, sitting on a public
bench, with the late afternoon sun just beginning to break through the
clouds that still swept the world with sheets of rain, that he reached
the realisation - life is a beautiful thing...
---------------------------------------
More drivel...
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Jan 01, 2005
 nunswithguns.jpg / funny Photo By: Unknown -- Nunz Wit Gunz |
| Apr 01, 06:25 |
| Mar 23, 16:47 |
| Mar 22, 15:13 |
| Mar 22, 11:13 |
| Mar 22, 10:33 |
Most hated computer brand other than MS
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