Alright, I just wrote this..it's very early in the morning. I expect the writing itself isn't particularly good, and I just have no damn idea about the contents. Maybe when I wake up I'll have a better idea of what I actually did here...but until then, here it is for you...comments?
It was foggy. So many stories could begin with that. “It was foggy.” A better writer might make a much better sentence than that, but I like this one. It's very short and to the point. I could say that it was as if the clouds of heaven had engulfed the Earth, and created a masterpiece of a sentence. Everyone reading it would see some deep meaning in it. If I really tried I could tie it into the story. But I'm not thinking ahead, and there is no story yet. There is no deep meaning yet.
It was foggy.
The world doesn't seem real when it is foggy. Your senses are turned upside down. We rely so much on our sense of sight that when it isn't working like it is supposed to, we feel lost. The fog brings our eyes closer to ourselves, and our ears farther from ourselves. It's like an amplifier for thought. Is that a car up there? I can't tell. I hear people talking. Talking about each other, talking about the fog. Why can't I do that? Why can't I talk to the people I want to talk to the most? I could tell a stranger that I think they're attractive, but I couldn't tell someone that I cared about. Is that a defense mechanism? I don't know.
It is a car up there. The people are standing next to it. I can barely make them out. Fog doesn't only bring our eyes in, but it blurs everything. Makes it all indistinct. Your imagination could run wild with this stuff. Sometimes it's just barely foggy, and you know something isn't right about what you're seeing, but you couldn't point out exactly what. It's...wrong. It doesn't look blurry like when I don't have my glasses on, and it doesn't look blurry like an out of focus picture. It's just...not right. I like that. Why do we always want everything to be perfect? People spend too much time striving for perfection and whining about what they're given. Worry kills. Indirectly. We're all dying. That's not some sort of depressed angst-inspired “woe is me”. We're dying, and we're living. Some people are dying more or faster than others. It's really up to us to make sure that we aren't dying more than we're living. “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” as the saying goes. Well, I can't advocate making the best of every situation, but I can advocate adoption of the viewpoint that every lemon you're given is another opportunity to surpass your dyingometer. Overcome it. It's all a balancing act, trying to live in the moment without ruining the next or the one after that.
I know these people. I was too lost in thought to recognize their voices.
They are farther away than I thought they were; it's taking quite a while to reach them. Maybe the fog is thickening, maybe they aren't as far away as they seem. Or maybe I'm fooling myself and trying to reason away from what I'm afraid to admit. I've stopped walking. When? When did I stop walking? How long have I been standing still? Long enough for the conversation to have moved on so far that I could not trace it if I tried. Did I stop walking because I was thinking, or did I stop walking because I hadn't realized I was slowing down? When I wake up in the morning, I have a plan for the day. What if each day I forgot to do just one thing that I intended? Would I realize I was slowing down until I was already stopped? Or did I slow down on purpose? What if every day I avoided doing just one thing I had intended? How long would it be before I was moving backwards, and would I stop if I knew? Could I stop?
I am running. I don't know which direction. The fog has thickened. Perhaps I hadn't been stopped for as long as I thought. Was I even stopped at all until I realized the fog had thickened? I don't know, but now I am running. Backwards, left, right, I don't know. I could be running directly where I intended to go, but the fog is so thick that I can't tell.
No. I can't do this. The fog is too thick. Who knows where I'll end up if I continue? I have to stop. I have to wait for the fog to thin. Where am I now? I don't know. I can't know. I can barely see myself, let alone the figures by the car. I can hear them talking, but I don't know what they're saying. I can't tell which direction it is coming from. It could be anywhere. The talking continues.
I'm lost. Where were they? My memory is hazy, I don't quite know. The fog is so heavy that it is somewhat difficult to breathe. Difficult like I've run a marathon. Maybe I have. But no, I don't have the endurance. I can't be far. It's just the fog. The fog is too thick, that's all that it is. That's all.
I can still hear them...do I know these people? Perhaps I was mistaken. I know that the fog can do that, when it's light. Maybe worse when it's heavy. I am spinning, looking for the source. The source...there. To my left. I hear it more distinctly in my left ear than my right. When I turn to it, I can no longer tell, but it gets louder as I walk. It. They. They're in front of me.
This fog. It doesn't bring me inward. In Soviet Russia. No, I have a mouth, I have vocal cords. I can hear them. In Soviet Russia. The fog isn't the problem. It provides its own solutions, if you stop looking at it and use it.
It was foggy, and we talked.
It was foggy. So many stories could begin with that. “It was foggy.” A better writer might make a much better sentence than that, but I like this one. It's very short and to the point. I could say that it was as if the clouds of heaven had engulfed the Earth, and created a masterpiece of a sentence. Everyone reading it would see some deep meaning in it. If I really tried I could tie it into the story. But I'm not thinking ahead, and there is no story yet. There is no deep meaning yet.
It was foggy.
The world doesn't seem real when it is foggy. Your senses are turned upside down. We rely so much on our sense of sight that when it isn't working like it is supposed to, we feel lost. The fog brings our eyes closer to ourselves, and our ears farther from ourselves. It's like an amplifier for thought. Is that a car up there? I can't tell. I hear people talking. Talking about each other, talking about the fog. Why can't I do that? Why can't I talk to the people I want to talk to the most? I could tell a stranger that I think they're attractive, but I couldn't tell someone that I cared about. Is that a defense mechanism? I don't know.
It is a car up there. The people are standing next to it. I can barely make them out. Fog doesn't only bring our eyes in, but it blurs everything. Makes it all indistinct. Your imagination could run wild with this stuff. Sometimes it's just barely foggy, and you know something isn't right about what you're seeing, but you couldn't point out exactly what. It's...wrong. It doesn't look blurry like when I don't have my glasses on, and it doesn't look blurry like an out of focus picture. It's just...not right. I like that. Why do we always want everything to be perfect? People spend too much time striving for perfection and whining about what they're given. Worry kills. Indirectly. We're all dying. That's not some sort of depressed angst-inspired “woe is me”. We're dying, and we're living. Some people are dying more or faster than others. It's really up to us to make sure that we aren't dying more than we're living. “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade” as the saying goes. Well, I can't advocate making the best of every situation, but I can advocate adoption of the viewpoint that every lemon you're given is another opportunity to surpass your dyingometer. Overcome it. It's all a balancing act, trying to live in the moment without ruining the next or the one after that.
I know these people. I was too lost in thought to recognize their voices.
They are farther away than I thought they were; it's taking quite a while to reach them. Maybe the fog is thickening, maybe they aren't as far away as they seem. Or maybe I'm fooling myself and trying to reason away from what I'm afraid to admit. I've stopped walking. When? When did I stop walking? How long have I been standing still? Long enough for the conversation to have moved on so far that I could not trace it if I tried. Did I stop walking because I was thinking, or did I stop walking because I hadn't realized I was slowing down? When I wake up in the morning, I have a plan for the day. What if each day I forgot to do just one thing that I intended? Would I realize I was slowing down until I was already stopped? Or did I slow down on purpose? What if every day I avoided doing just one thing I had intended? How long would it be before I was moving backwards, and would I stop if I knew? Could I stop?
I am running. I don't know which direction. The fog has thickened. Perhaps I hadn't been stopped for as long as I thought. Was I even stopped at all until I realized the fog had thickened? I don't know, but now I am running. Backwards, left, right, I don't know. I could be running directly where I intended to go, but the fog is so thick that I can't tell.
No. I can't do this. The fog is too thick. Who knows where I'll end up if I continue? I have to stop. I have to wait for the fog to thin. Where am I now? I don't know. I can't know. I can barely see myself, let alone the figures by the car. I can hear them talking, but I don't know what they're saying. I can't tell which direction it is coming from. It could be anywhere. The talking continues.
I'm lost. Where were they? My memory is hazy, I don't quite know. The fog is so heavy that it is somewhat difficult to breathe. Difficult like I've run a marathon. Maybe I have. But no, I don't have the endurance. I can't be far. It's just the fog. The fog is too thick, that's all that it is. That's all.
I can still hear them...do I know these people? Perhaps I was mistaken. I know that the fog can do that, when it's light. Maybe worse when it's heavy. I am spinning, looking for the source. The source...there. To my left. I hear it more distinctly in my left ear than my right. When I turn to it, I can no longer tell, but it gets louder as I walk. It. They. They're in front of me.
This fog. It doesn't bring me inward. In Soviet Russia. No, I have a mouth, I have vocal cords. I can hear them. In Soviet Russia. The fog isn't the problem. It provides its own solutions, if you stop looking at it and use it.
It was foggy, and we talked.
Warhead[97]
