Recollections From my Tour of the Invisible World (Part I) (374 hits)
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Submitted by Kirillovian_Shit_Stain (View user info) at 2008-11-27 13:14:22 EST
**There are 6 parts so far.
I
Initialize Destruction Sequence
There is a place on the corner that I go to quite often when I am ailed by a terrifying lack of fluid. It is a convenient store, and within it are all the products of Western Civilization that the many annals of history glorify: extra large eggs, pasteurized milk, Twizzlers, individually wrapped Advil pills. Some things sit on shelves, some in freezers and coolers. When I am done selecting the item or items I need, I proceed to the payment counter. The old man behind the bullet proof glass looks at me with an empty face, and behind him I see the endless expanses of the cigarette shelves. A pack of cigarettes for four dollars and thirty cents there, another for three sixty that way, maybe a buy two get one free gimmick. It's a bountiful place. I put my bills and change into the hole in the glass, and the old man takes it. "Would you like a receipt?" No way, there's too much shit in my pockets. The store is veiled in the smell of old floor cleaner, cigar smoke from the old man, and the coffee machine adds its own element of surprise.
I leave the convenient store, and I walk to my apartment. The sidewalk is cracked every way. This provides a nice map of the deterioration of my neighborhood. A once glorious place to move, is now riddled with holes by the force of the tectonic plates, and for want of repair, its glory went into hibernation long ago. That's all part of the environment. But look at the green paint! My door is near. A fence over the window obscures the view to within, but there's nothing to see: a bunch of dirty stairs, a landing, and then more stairs, all culminating at the top with a second floor - there is no first floor. Walking up the shredded rubber pads of the stairs, I glide my hand across the splintery rail; cast an indifferent gaze at the thick white paint peeling off of the walls. I wonder what time it is. I wonder what time is. I wonder... The darkness of this hallway is temporarily fended off by an assault of florescent light. A spiral light bulb pushed onto the consumer for its energy saving abilities, looks ridiculous without a cover, but there it is, spiraling out of the ceiling, mocking the aesthetic appeal of the one hundred year old apartment building which it must illuminate. Conflict between the once glorious old and the modern new, with an extreme lack of care somewhere in between, is probably the best way to describe this scene. I laugh when I reach the top of the stairs and wheel left toward my room. I see the window that goes nowhere - a window that shows nothing but barren and dark concrete with paint that seems to have been applied before even the gods walked this god forsaken planet. A window without a view - that's probably the best way to describe my opinion of my future. What future is there for a man who looks out a window and can't see more than five feet ahead? The sunlight comes in, sure, but it's filtered through a lens of dirty plastic that rests on the roof, preventing the rain from falling into the useless window shaft. I'll go ahead and retract that statement, now, that this building ever had any sort of aesthetic appeal, because in reality it is a monument to sheer utility. This apartment is a remnant of the beginning of this age we live in, in which people are expected to spend the duration of their miserable lives in a cube, crunching out numbers and filing reports on God knows what for the sake of a trifle. That's not my concern. I am not the type who submits to such an existence. The thing about that, though, is that those who do not submit to such an existence are often doomed to live a life of financial poverty. Almost ironic that for me, my lack of desire to cubize myself resulted in this apartment of mine: a cubic living quarter, maybe with a hundred square feet. Nice concrete walls, the same thick white peeling paint. Well, I laugh at the window, and approach the bedroom door. This door has a window on it as well, but wouldn't you now it, our old friend, the thick white peeling paint covers up the transparency. Not that I want to see my dusty hallway from my bedroom, but it makes me wonder... who paints over a window? Maybe someone who decided a door with a window makes a better door than a window. So I open the door. I don't open it all the way, because the couch blocks the proper trajectory. It's enough to slide in. And here I am, in my room. Oh, this is where I spend the best moments of my life. Here I sleep, write, watch television, pretend to be a musician, pretend to be a famous writer or a news reporter, or a skier of great ability - flipping, zooming, shredding the ice and snow, twisting and jumping through the air like a fish flops on the ground, but for the graceful landing, inevitably followed by a sea of cheering spectators who at the same time wish they could have seen me impale myself on the two sticks that guide my speed. My room is where I think. That's probably the most important thing. See, within this cube of space, completely cut off from all sight of the world outside, and having a nice filter of sound, I can pretend that I am in Europe. Europeans probably don't have these problems. A long established civilization that was not founded for profit, but for necessity, truly understands the way to preserve the essence of what it means to be a human. Perhaps. Maybe out in the country anyway. I don't pretend I'm in Europe often. My room is where I drink, smoke, and eat. My room is where I wish, pine, and hope. My room is where I dread, despair, and fear. I wish for a better world, I dread the present; I pine for a new life, and I fight the despair that would crush me if I think about the life I already have; I hope that I'm not going insane, but I fear that I've been insane for as long as I've been alive. The walls used to be covered in posters that put upon pedestals the musicians that I worship, the governments that I admire, the people I emulate, and the pictures I doodled in a frenzy, most likely under the influence of some drug or another. This room was a great place for visitors, but nobody visits it anymore. I took all that stuff down because the chipped up paint and random protruding nails and things speak more about my life than those posters ever did. I am a fan of poetic decoration, you see.
Currently it's time to sleep. When I sleep, I dream terrible things. Often my dream sequences are punctuated by the destructive force of an ominous storm, a tornado of death - they chase me all over my imagined landscape, and there's no escape. Once at a family reunion in Russia, a tornado tore its way through our football game on a potato field, and sucked up all my friends, my summer house, the trees, the creek, the mountains, the animals... a swirling vortex of devastation found its way to my happy hideout in my mind, and took them all away. Left there alone beneath black skies I wept for what I once had. This windy specter carved its initials "AOD", standing for Angel of Death, and, mocking my longing for His cold touch, made its way back into the sky. As I sat there on the raped field, in front of God, the ruined remains of all that I loved rained down upon me: a leg there; a table here, spattered with blood; maybe a wall or two from my summer house that way by the former tree line. A circle of rubble surrounds me. "Maybe a fire will cleanse my sorrow. Figures. Mister AOD didn't take away my powers of flame," I thought, for there in my pocket I found a lighter, and as everything was just aching to be burned, there was no need to douse the debris with gasoline. With a touch of the Bic, I unleashed an inferno upon the countryside. As far as I could see, skyscraping flames licked the clouds, dancing like demons. My altar of despair was complete, and the healing process could begin, for at that moment, like always, I woke up.
User Reviews
Submitted by BigBuffty (user info) at 2008-11-28 08:42:41 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
the only shit stain here is gonna be on your sheets where i wiped my large cock after raping you. that is all.
Submitted by Snark (user info) at 2008-11-27 20:49:13 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
Submitted by SilvrWolf (user info) at 2008-11-27 13:55:01 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
The formatting sucks. You really should learn about paragraphs. You tried, I'll give it to you, but you still need to work on it.
Existential writing never seems to go well with an apocalyptic climax, IMO. When you write something like this, try reading it out loud when you're finished. If something doesn't sound right when vocalized by yourself, you can be relatively sure that it'll leave your readers even more confused. If it doesn't flow out of your mouth smoothly, it probably will stop your readers in their tracks.
But mostly, it's the formatting. It makes it hard to read or stay involved. In this ADD world we live in, you should have enough breaks in something you're reading so as to be able to easily pick up where you left off should you be distracted.
The writing is not at all bad; it just needs some sort of rhythm and flow to it; a cohesiveness.
Submitted by DonkeyOnTheEdge (user info) at 2008-11-27 17:12:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Mine eyes. Halfway through and then I watched this until the block text dissipated.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_1nzEFMjkI4
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2008-11-27 14:17:15 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
No Comment
Submitted by KirillovianShitStain (user info) at 2008-11-27 14:01:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
I figured the formatting wouldn't be well liked. Oops. I'll fix it up. As for the whole it sounds like shit out loud business... I have to work on that.
Criticism is appreciated.
Submitted by SilvrWolf (user info) at 2008-11-27 13:55:01 EST (#)
Ranking: -1
The formatting sucks. You really should learn about paragraphs. You tried, I'll give it to you, but you still need to work on it.
Existential writing never seems to go well with an apocalyptic climax, IMO. When you write something like this, try reading it out loud when you're finished. If something doesn't sound right when vocalized by yourself, you can be relatively sure that it'll leave your readers even more confused. If it doesn't flow out of your mouth smoothly, it probably will stop your readers in their tracks.
But mostly, it's the formatting. It makes it hard to read or stay involved. In this ADD world we live in, you should have enough breaks in something you're reading so as to be able to easily pick up where you left off should you be distracted.
The writing is not at all bad; it just needs some sort of rhythm and flow to it; a cohesiveness.