Archive for the prose Category

The System

Posted in depression, life, love, poetry, prose, writing with tags , , , on July 19, 2019 by Shadow

Falling deeply into the realm of a science unknown to many, the symptoms of construct devaluation became ever apparent within the eyes of those who observed the situation. Witnessing with terribly insatiate satisfaction, initial thoughts became enamored with colors and representations of ideas and channels of irregular thinking. Though these facts were known, no action had been taken. All other means, besides the way a number of them were treated, were exhausted and abandoned. The only way an outcome could have attained completion would have been the granting of an access the system aggregate would not have approved of.

The matter was postponed, however, and within the spectrum of plausible issues, a bearing down of action created and implemented a law that drew favorable results, proving the existence of reasonable attitudes and willing partnerships that seemed all too unreal to imagine. Had it not been for variations of streaming information, these results may not have been as originally desired, and all hell would have ensued.

Fully excluding the possibility of a catastrophe, the new idea emerged, and with the transference of cognitions known to only those outside of the “marked” system, success was attributed to the fully esteemed members. Other faculties involved themselves, and outer systems began to engage the search as well. With the final retrieval of the battery exempts, the bottom line for the entire excursion meant one thing and one thing only: a fully adapted means of building up the mind to include the outer properties.

This refractive thought meant that a not only would a new system arise out of the dust of its former malaise, but the system would also take on propensities that could handle the stress of individual inputs, from minds from without the system. It was a mind-blowing advantage and many would partake of its provisions. This being the case, the other side of the coin could not be ignored.

The fact of the matter was that such cognitions of sorts would, indeed, cause substantial hampering and fail to meet the operated system standard. Such was the price of process evolution. With the increasing number of thought-pattern deviations conflicting with the original system implication, the numbers would reach proportions undesirable to the participating many. People would have to give up certain aspects in order to, in turn, gain the other aspects. Revolutions of matter-practice strapping and individual relayed correspondence had to be kept to a minimum. Furthermore, the simple fact that the underlying sub-continual currents had to play their share as well, it didn’t help with the outcome of the situation. Ultimately, and simply put, the final shares ended up critically reduced by competitive examination.

Surely there was a way to round all of this speculation into one ballpark stream of input. Many had tried, but a few felt they were on the actual track. With a blown proportion of mainstream identities combined with the side-longed arrays of beaten-down tracking, a forceful, aggressive and liquidating form of system propulsion could answer the system question without having to address the minor aspects of the problem. In fact, by applying this “alternate route” of understanding, many minor aspects had simply vanished from all record keeping. These results pleased the higher-ups, and kept the minor shifters in check. Revolutionary, indeed, the scale of numbers proved so steep that the impact of its effect bordered on one drastic measure. A new system subordinate had to be created just to keep up with the incoming flux of matter related proportions.

Nevertheless, there failed to exist a way to keep up with mainstream modifications, and with it, the intentions of the system, and all others involved, suffered deterring positions. Panels were created to discuss the intensities while rooms became filled with observation methods and equipment that dazzled the eyes of a common passerby. While the activity seemed excessive, participants brazenly proclaimed the necessity of it all. Facts of layering and questions of stammer-collision programming made the finality of their intentions even further excruciating. With propelled discussion created for the sole purpose of designing an institution that could overcome the system implements, fact-figuring fell all too often into the realm of guessing. This was never a good thing, and with the expansion of such retailed proclivity, the system found that its intentions suffered at the hands of those bent on exploiting it.

What did the system recommendation decide as a solution? The answer lied within the system’s ability to substantiate, instigate, permeate, propagate, penetrate and then regulate to achieve the desired result. While many thought this ability could be discovered through the panegyrics of the higher-ups and the side-shifters, the overall interpretation of the data proved to be an insight that no one could ignore. The data was startling, and none of the outer-member spectrum models could’ve predicted the disastrous results that followed.

The system imploded. Matrix channels, wire-backed model plants, facilitated directive units, alongside a vast array of more complicated appendages, were torn to the very fabric of their designs. Havoc broke lose among the higher-ups, and the side-shifters clamored and rattled the platelets with ferocity. Being at the brunt end of the collapse was no laughing matter, and the outer-member provinces buckled without retaining the slightest measure of composure; the entire time their models had revealed, that the system implements lacked a molecular individuality which could sustain the high mass subdivision separation. Mid-stage in the system evolution, the catastrophe left only one route to pursue: enhancement of the individualistic-proportion method design.

Proceeding the implosion, system implements redoubled the effort to come back with twice the intensity of its modulated predecessors. The outer stream forms were, again, supplanted with the same level of engineering, only with the enhanced sub-dividers calculating the effects as they occurred. Instead of attempting to predict system productions, the numbers produced a seemingly “enhanced” result; modulating the wave-graph to account for the numbers further exemplified the effectiveness of running the system in this manner. By increasing the influx and reducing the palpitated rate, outer-stream methodology was opened up to a whole new array of implantation-interactive-consciousness assembly. The system had finally adapted, and with it, the moderation capacity, thus, had to be “enhanced” as well.

This fact prompted a burst of activity at base levels. Programs were designed to adapt within the model while critical points were addressed through elemental mediums. With an emphasis on creating plausible structure, extra effort was placed on the modification units where symbiotic players were introduced, and through the adaptation process, the moderation capacity became, much to designer surprise, unusually and almost over-enhanced. Bar meters pinched nanometers above the predicted rate causing an effectual surfacing of the micro-emblematic pressure zone. Now, endless amounts of elixir-modifying, tri-focal events ran the gamut of non-proliferating zonal regions. Propagating the mixer level tweaked the system even further to produce the renowned “expulsion tract,” where strands of layer device code accelerated the system dynamic to an implementation variable beyond what was thought to be possible. Here the panel decided that allowing the system to run “clean,” without outer-provincial influence for the specified amount of time, despite the possibility of consequences, would have to be the only appropriate course of action.

During an unexpected waiting period, the fact was noted that the measure of quality had met with a slight discrepancy. The higher-ups pointed the fact out, the outer-member component agreed, and the system itself somehow ended up compromising, in turn, proponents of the faculty provisions. A metered route dig supplying the main wire device withheld a slight shade of neglect, and by the time the news got around, a team was brought in to engage the repair and to disassemble the mismanagement. The control was met, and the higher-ups let the mistake pass as an irrelevant mischance whose effect resulted, luckily enough for the data samplers, in a magnanimous decision to continue.

By the time exactness found its way into the form of achievement, crucible identifiers and block-technique equalization symbolized the grand unity of the ultimate system. Much could be said for the effect, for many operant devices associated with the output performed with miraculous precision. Hours and days had passed with no indication of faulty processing, though, contrarily, modulation-gearing translated into the highest of possible markers. A content state of affairs seemed to be breeding for the higher-ups, and that was all they cared about: the most complete, unchallenged mode of control that could possibly exist. When the zoom cradles finally fluttered at the sound of full-capacity, this was the moment when they could actually say, “We have done it.”

Binder zones were stunted while the distance of chain incapacitation increased to a maximum of which no one had ever dreamed. Shift complexities and fluctuation modes never bit, while the binary jam channels streamed with drenching, liquidating sensation. It seemed the heavier the input, the more graceful the crunch, and with the measurements poking their way into the realm of zonal de-falsification, no one could have guessed the channels would have held with such ease. Even the outer-member component produced a grin of surprise, sending many of the participants out for what was known at the time as a well-deserved “popping of the cork.”

It was here that they finally found each other.

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In Pursuit

Posted in life, poetry, prose, Uncategorized, writing with tags , on September 17, 2014 by Shadow

In Pursuit

Running and running through the empty streets with the wind blowing in my face, the water molecules collide with my skin and gets in my eyes, and my clothes get soggy and heavy as I go.

No one is following me.

I am chasing something.

A shadow of a person who may or may not exist.

The shadow I chase is the vision of everything I had ever hoped for, everything I dreamed of doing, and the shadow gets further and further away, the more that I chase.

Don’t stop for me, shadow, don’t prove yourself weak in your will; keep from me all that I hope, all that I dream, for I wouldn’t want anyone to think you were frail and incompetent.

Un-Alone

Posted in life, personal, poetry, prose, writing with tags , on July 20, 2014 by Shadow

Them

After traumatic events led to a major disorder in my thinking, something bizarre occurred. One day I found myself face-to-face with a doorway into another world; and yet, it was a doorway into my mind. I saw beings there that looked like people, and they saw me in return. I say they looked like people because in some ways, they were more like creatures, mutated forms mocking the shape of a human.

Being seen like this was jarring; startling. Their eyes felt like my eyes, as though I were watching myself. I felt fear, a fear they could grasp. I tried to cope, but a haunting sensation tore through me, the kind that told me I wasn’t important to anyone. The feeling was crippling and I wanted to hide, but wherever I tried to move to, their eyes followed me.

The Box

Posted in life, personal, poetry, prose, writing on March 28, 2014 by Shadow

box-icon

Living in a box causes the psyche to adapt in unhealthy ways. One feels the thin walls, and knows others can hear every cough. Even worse, the loneliness may cause one to soliloquize, and people listening may wonder, because they have lives. If one is lucky, they can look out the window and enjoy the breeze and the sight of the trees, but to go out spells disaster because the world is expensive, and one may not have money. One may pass the time lying down doing lots of reading, but only part of what’s been read is taken in, for the rest of the time has been occupied by thoughts of a terrible past, or a hopeless future. One may think of longings, or a lost love, and go for a walk to ease the pain of remembering, but will be so torn down by a lack of self-esteem that the ability to interact with others has been removed. One may feel frustrated knowing they could go out, only to have to come back to the box, and may spend time avoiding those of whom they know have no interest in them. The box provides shelter from the rain, but the eternity passes in a shell of gloom, and sometimes a surge of embarrassment will arise at the thought of those who know the situation. Living the life of a peasant can grow on one, and thoughts of suicide might arise, or maybe a repetition of curtain-checking will ensue. If one goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water, they may see a beautiful person through the window, and become enraptured by jealousy as the person hugs another and holds hands with them.

The box may make a person feel incapable of saying the right things because freedom is such a long ways off, even if the door is wide open; because there is nowhere to go. Maybe things are said that are taken with unintended meaning, and possible friends are lost. One could think about the box, and want to at least share a word or two with someone, and try and reach out; only to be crudely rejected for possessing the specter of loneliness. Feelings may escalate from this point, where the person retreats into the box and lives out a fantasy that they’re loved, and that a dream world is not far away. Smiles unfold on a screen and the person may feel better for a few moments, unaware of the two-dimensional nature. Maybe after the screen is turned off, a conversation takes place where a person might feel included, and maybe a voice might provide comfort. One might even hear the voice grow quiet, and learn that the voice is listening intently, with care. The voice is the one that knows of the dream, and provides the greatest possible measure to make the dream come true. When sleep comes, reality comes with, and the answers are fed deep into the subconscious. The alarm goes off, and the world of people are exposed, and no one pays attention, and so the reality of the dream comes along to help. After spending the time alone among hundreds of people, one might return to the box with the most nail-biting, fail-feeling sense of hope.

The box is where depression lies, and the mind is active in the box with every fear and non-dream like realism, where dream worlds are created to alleviate the pressure of the kings and queens of loneliness bearing down on them.

Deep Recesses

Posted in life, personal, poetry, prose, Uncategorized, writing with tags on September 13, 2013 by Shadow

Loss

The terrorization of living. One person thrives while another suffers. This is alright in the eyes of God? Was there ever a chance for everyone to be happy? Or do the wolf packs chase the herds endlessly, a victim bound to fall?

Each moment is a moment of terror, blows of inanity that induce fight-or-flight reactions, propagating the natural order. To put matters bluntly, God does not exist. The terror of life is easier to cope with under these conditions, the survival of the fittest paving the way for the future. For a soul caught by the wayside, caught in the jet stream of progress, floundering in the dilemma of ignorance, his spirit is torn to shreds for his attempt at trying.

The feeling is like a moment in the reality of an alternate world, when one notices a gruesome element of the environment. Maybe water is dripping along the insides of a stone building, and with the turn of a head, one sees the people gathered as they stare; they are mutants, outcasts of the social order, and they can see a person’s every move. Or maybe a vast desert has become all the more inhospitable for a pulverizing wind that won’t stop, where one’s thoughts are continually drawn to the thought of water and comfort.

When the fog of a dream lifts, the sound of traffic comes roaring in. Each four-wheeled domain a rolling entity of agenda, each willing to mow another over in the name of itinerant duty. The clouds keep the sun out and the faces, they meld with the pervasive absence of satisfaction, a ceaseless game that breaks only when the dinner bell rings out its paltry chimes.

A woman walks along the littered gutters of the street, fortune her long lost lover, and the cats in the cans dig for their evening meal. Love had been wrought by the great and mighty voice in the sky, but its smooth silky petals grew worn by streams of corruptive radiation, that force which comes from a vile thought, a cutting, hateful remark. Hurt, she spent some change for a can of food to give to the cats so she could cling to the smallest grain of goodness in her soul. And the people in the windows, five stories up, they watched as their pizzas grew cold in preparation for the mildew that would form.

Then came the rain. It began as a light drizzle that moistened the oily streets enough to create a sheen that brought back memories. That time when we tried to train our dog. The day your bottles were found in the back yard. The moment when I specifically told you, not to jump. The rain doesn’t care about friends or families, or schedules. It just shows up like a diesel truck from out of the distance, its clatter turning pockets of silence into pockets of disruption. Would the fates endow a measure of peace if I offered to feel bad, for as long I could, the rain soaking my head as I sat there in the park, trying to figure it all out?

No, the rain could have stayed away, and everything would have been fine, but because it was there, creating puddles of dirty water, it was therapeutic. Dreams and desires vanished in the sound of cars whizzing through the wetness, a spark of hope crushed like road kill pushed aside, waiting for animal control do its job. Rain was better than love because you knew, you could feel it, the emotions and the glory, you knew it would all go away so that something more dreadful would puncture its way into your world, something that would utterly ruin you; and the people, they would all notice and watch as you made a complete mess of yourself. I told you, I pleaded with you, and yet you wouldn’t listen.

Some say that the afterlife is waiting for us when we die. No one knows what this place looks like. I see trees and sidewalks, mountains and skyscrapers, but I don’t see the afterlife, presumably because I’m not dead. Should I take a leap into imagining what the afterlife is like? How could I? I know the afterlife doesn’t exist. So when I think of death, I think of a vast ocean where all my suffering becomes diluted in the rolling waves. All the things I hoped for are exchanged for oblivion, that state of nothingness where what might have been known, can never be known. I hope that the sooner people forget me, the better. I hated this life. Being alone is a punishment; being rejected makes it worse. Instead of being vindictive, I can only spell out the reality on the page.

“Who are you?” she asked. But my question in return would be, “What does it take to ask a question like that?” The guts, the gall, the inspiration, the confidence. The question she asked seemed like curiosity, but was merely an effect of repetition. With each person we encounter, the need to know drives us, even if the answers are sometimes disappointing.

The blinds block my view of the stars high in the night sky. Beneath me the spiders crawl while out on the street, people passing by in their vehicles travel to their places of importance. Every unit of activity has a measure of importance. I thought about the needs and desires of people, what makes a thing important to them. I was unable to complete the thought. I let it flow through me without trying grasp it, much like the woman whose cloak keeps her sheltered from the prying eyes, a disguise that keeps her sanctity intact. And when the falling acid burns the rooftops, I play songs that make me think, that make me believe, that somehow I have significance, which is such a travesty.

The nightmare speaks of the deepest fear, the reality that marks truth. And truth can be the most frightful thing of all. It bores into the deepest recesses of the human heart and puts it in a stranglehold, until some resolution can purge the terror of that truth. Facts are undeniable, and some facts are subjected to the sincerest attempts of neglect. When the animal, the predator looks one directly in the eye, facts become like the festering rot of truth, where everything is as serious as the death of someone you loved, like no other person in the entire world. And your stomach becomes tight with the pain.

The Frayed Edges of Existence

Posted in love, personal, poetry, prose with tags , on July 12, 2013 by Shadow

Alone

Only one person can touch the heart, that person some call a soul mate. She’s the one you can tell, nothing else is as important, because the nights are hard to get through alone, or like, sometimes, it’s hard to make sense of my thoughts when she crosses my mind.

When fate enacted its charms, I was forced to go away, the complications so difficult to explain that an entire dissertation couldn’t cover the extent of what happened. Paradoxically, the simplest thing underscoring the whole of the matter, was how much I loved her.

An obstacle established, a circumstance pushing matters in a torrential way, a chain of events and the passing of time, and suddenly, my soul mate was gone. I had to imagine life without her, the possibility of kissing a complete stranger, someone I would never come to love, like I loved her.

The wind blows upon my path as I travel, until my bones turn to dust and I have to wonder. Why couldn’t the fates have had pity on me? Do the angels, at least, marvel at the strength it takes, to walk alone, without her? Is it a choice, that I choose to follow my path into the ice, where I finally come face-to-face with my demise, never knowing the reason why I was singled out?

Is that what I am then, a monster, forced to find someone else, when no one else will do? Having the strings that extended between you and I torn, was painful. Unresolved, I keep myself barred from the cold wind that freezes my face, bound to the isolation of the glacial path. Because where it leads me is irrelevant, for if you are not there, then where or who am I, but a weary traveler.

Meat Grinder

Posted in prose, writing on December 23, 2010 by Shadow

– courtesy of The Wall

“A woman died today because the electric company shut off the power that ran her automatic breather.”

Why doesn’t each segment of society have a meat grinder for the people that they can’t stand? They know they can’t stand them, yet hide behind the lies of religion and philanthropy. Life would be so much easier for those who are living comfortably if they didn’t have to deal with those who have trouble living. People that bother others because they are having problems should be shot by the government and placed into large meat grinders to be made into fertilizer. People who are suffering should be eliminated, just like in nature, when the herd leaves behind the sick and disabled to be eaten by wolves. Then the people who have life figured out would not have to bother themselves with helping those who distract them from living out their lives. Meat grinders are hopefully already being situated in this world where masses of people are being shut out and left to starve. How much easier it is to be rid of those cankerous types of whom, if they never knew the feeling of happiness, why should they ever know it exists? A well sharpened industrialized meat grinder could solve much of society’s problems if society would just give it a chance. The countries sicken with over population and the only solution any governmental operation can think of is to round them up for slaughter so they won’t be such a problem anymore.