Paper and life. (Another donut shaped rant, sorta.) (Remember, stay sharp, don't cut yourself. It hurts.)

Not much in a mood to read. Seeing nice little things, but no forcing it.

It's like me eating too much sugary stuff today whilst writing in those motebooks, and thinking of stuff.

I couldn't eat as much real food as I desired cause I wasn't hungry enough. And ain't being any soon.

I won't even try. I may, but if I ain't. I ain't.

Also, those notebooks really are too small, and slightly too chocolate covered at points.

Really considering getting some money into a portable writing thing, electronic or so. Yet, I'm not sure how much I could accidently break it: I love having objects to throw and catch, or even bounce on things, or jump with or upon. I often have objects I could casually use to equal a strong man's punch. Even when I shouldn't: so frustrating!

I'm way too used to others around beeing in apathy to my needs, forever enforcing their routines. School was my freest time when young: I could walk around freely between classes. Could even do lots of stuff others would get stopped for, cause of my niceness and somesuch. Yet, never could I earn additional blocks of time. Nor go far, nor even get much info on more advanced stuff related to what we would eventually study. It was, often boring and halted; curtailed before greater meaning. I had nice hobbies, but could never practice as freely as I would want. Always would want. If asked what I wanted those years, I would generally respond by an introductory repeat of what I responded to. To indicate the width of my response, when I didn't bable in a rant. Like for all else.

When they asked what I wanted, my best response was oft: what I would want — I did not precise why I said that if asked, but father made it clear that prioritising bad things was punishible by deliberate attempts to forced reformation. —, well. "What I would want", I said, oft repeating for a bit. "Is not something I am familiar with." "I don't have the experience to know yet."

Like much of what I said when awake, and irritated, back then, it was more than a simple double-entendre: My father hated me so easily when he was irrate. Punished me so easily, and I seldom ever had a time without worry. As such times brought me punishments through the simplest accidents. I was punished more than once for having piqued someone's interest so much that they spoke to my father: more than once before I got my loosely controlled reputation for oddness.

That oddness bleeds into my conforts of today: If I walk in a city, or Celestia forbid, a sub-urb. I feel odd, at best. For I cannot even walk right.

Thing is, instead of walking at varying paces without looking straight, reading a book or sketching between sprints and whistles and spurts —humming when happy— I am forced, – obliged! – to actually feel the things the dull and dreary looks of the people as I pass by. And how I remembered the fear of that ability of strangers to get me hurt on a comment, as soon as we were home. I remembered it since young, since before I last saw my mother, even tough father mostly punished me for having stalled him too much, even as he himself could randomly stick around packs of batteries for hours, somtimes. But, really. It mattered not. I learned to be outside under my father's suspecting authorization, because I had garden chores to do, or was by his side, as I must. The school years came with the chores, after he had no women, and no money to focus so much on locking me. I'm not sure why every school experience from before was cut short, but his constant urges to move when he felt less well probably contributed. He never liked responsabilities, and neither do I, when they feel imposed, but I didn't pity him any close to as much as I uneasily loathed his handling of his problems. There is no reward for helping him with those: only spite and unworded actions. He hardly thanks others in anything but formal politeness, yet sometimes harrasses others when they don't express enough gratitude to his efforts in kindness. Even if they never wanted those efforts: you don't openly reject him.

But enough of that. Father was philosophically dull and dreary. He also said philosophy and art are worthless things. That it was a privilege for the accomplished only to indulge. Hence, he often desecrated what I liked to "teach me", saying I would thank him. I still doubt I ever will. Honestly, I don't care if I end up not knowing how to contact him. I revile him so much my peace swallowed itself into anger as I wrote this. Well, I'll be humming later, anyways, this stride is beyond no return from broken, yet. Heh.

My ability to feel "bad" emotions actually pleases me. I was too often rapidly thrown into depression when young, so I couln't contemplate my own hate like this. I think I could rage, these days. But I guess it would end like my spouts of euphoria: asecond of uncontrolled movements, followed by seconds of precise ones. I hate that growing made me heavier: it's so much more important to know your environment when you weigh to much to jump off most things. And fences are too simple and boring.

It's part of why I hate walking in some sub-urbs: So few that walk to those who drive, and so much repeat in the length and proprieties of objects. Even the colors, repeat themselves. I feel odd to move around, – regulated traffic – and so annoyed: the excuses I have to walk become meaningless as I start to feel like an old tramway. Forever slow, fidgeting in a pre-ordained path.

I hate so easily when people say they like what I do. Because even when I could have agreed to it, I oft was so told before I myself started to like it. And they ruined the mood. I learned the habit of walking —or hopping— away from those who spoke at the wrong moment. It was more enjoyable to me. And somehow, I never learned to like the idea of getting along with people who liked what I did: sometimes it's stuff I did out of orders or neccessity, that I hated. And sometimes, I really didn't know.

Perhapas it would've been different if father didn't insist to know my email and keylog my computer, as soon as I had one. Whatever. I feared his moments of obsession too much. He really did influence me. And I disliked my inability to get over it quicker. I never believed he would dare do anything permanent and visible on purpose. But eh, he was such a crazed heretic idiot at times. I could almost wish he accidently hurt himself in his tantrums more often. Except that it was hardly of any beauty of use: a sign of malfunction, if such things exist.

I don't believe in objective malfunction though: without purpose, no fail. And I don't know his purpose in life more than his birthday: he lied to me atleast once about it. Probably more, but I don't care of his birthday. I don't even know if he ever actually celebrates it.

So, down to real stuff: today! I recall some days ago I was quite utterly irrate. First, I was dumb, stress testing myself. Wrote some story in context of a write-off, perhaps it wasn't bad: opening mentioned destiny, fate, future and change, four fires that burned the world, shaping it. Only one that could be foretold: by the oracle. Destiny. The oracle's only rule was that a destiny abandoned was fated to be missed: but they never expressed the rule clearly. Then the first tale-ish paragraph, a boy born in difiicult times, fated to be a farmer, his family thought, till they had an oportunity, and took it: back from the oracle, he said: "I will become a slayer of dragons" Then, he left, for a life of his own. Then the story went on, of how he grew up a squire, mocked for his beliefs. Of how he went to travel the lands, to fulfill his destiny with his hands, and of how he travelled, and many stuff I could mess around with. The base I had written was, extensive, and essentially complete, yet somewhat stressing me with the timeline clenching with my own wants of refining the chiseled mess. I could've easily done it okay, and submitted, but that I did not want. T'was never my goal. And old habits die hard: when in class, I wanted to learn, forever unsatisfied with how little and often how inefficient the programme was. Not very tailored and trimmed, base education. Even maths was often, not optimised for technical computing, yet presented so longly for what most would never calculate or remember without a calculator. A funny inbetween, where people would sometime catch false understandings. I saw. And verified. And yes, it happened. It just wasn't my style. Atleast passing the exams well enough to not be punished when father was in his average mood proved non-difficult.

But again. All my memories are linked through the undertones that cross my mind as I consider things. So even if my thoughts can be streamed purposedly in more or less emotionally involved manners. When they are emotional, there are only the tones lived through and those I explicitedly reinforced, by plan or not. Huff. So much words, so little but to repeat. Like in class, yes: except I know it is not an effective manner to teach when left to be received in random drifts of mood and attention of those exposed who care.

I do not truly wish to teach who I am. Not really. I'm just so embarrassed sometimes. When I want something, I act sharply. Just like when I catch an object. Or throw one. Sometimes I feel like throwing something into a bin, lazy I am. But I don't want it to actually land well, rather, I throw it so I'll get off my lazy ass and actually put it in manually. I actually find trowing thrash to be, sloppy. As many forms of trash may exude of many splendid crumbs as they do their way.

Similar stuff can happen when a pressured liquid flows through the air. Not that I care too much, but I am a nitpicker. Conditions would vary anyways. And I can let food potentially fall upon my floor when I'm very lazy. It generally result in me deciding to mentally kick myself some motivation, and I never fail. I just, get bored and decide to strain myself when stuck again. Hence: no longer get stuck, bro.

Hence: that story was me stressing myself overly in the end. I tested myself enough for my own feedback, got a story and whatnot. (Hell, stupid guy got all obsessed in proving himself by proving his destiny, became more and more single focused, got good at killing all those bandits and orcs that stopped travelers and made mercenary work: and what for? To just break down atfer some battle were yet again the fellows he was just then travelling with got to lay down their shadows. To walk into the church whose guards didn't help in the defense, and drink from the cup because he was parched. Thus undermining a rival belief system while he was at it, although that wasn't explicitely told. And the scenes after began with him dreaming of a past failure, asking why he couldn't have found his destiny back then, and a bodiless voice simply telling him: because a blade is not melted but tempered and forged. Eh. After his disrespectful monologue to the voice, asking wether it was dragon or mage in his dreams, the scenes change as he wakes, ponders the cold night, looks around and at the stars and asks "where is my horse", after which starts the most immersive first person scene. After quite some while of walking in increasing snow and such nonse, I then wrote his encounter with the priest he had horrified. Whom silently ate whilst he had wandered days in the illusion of dream, stuck in cold without food. And the priest really did just eat, ignoring him, before asking what help he needed and breaking fourth wall repeatedly by demanding silence to every start of where he said, would have been written. Then later the priest gone, another night had, but spring and not winter: as was the clearing where priest was found. And then I wrote this messed up, half baked thing of dancing shadows that laughed and multiplyed as they lit more fires and then danced as he joined their merry and they all laughed – around him – in the clearing, etc etc. Ended with jarbled messed-up, almost random (not truly) mindscrew. It was really, so easy for me to not be able to have time to revise when I was split in priorities and dissected (torn) in conviction. But essentially it was followed by some two/three sentence scene. "Do not listen to them" "Do not doubt yourself" Honestly, whilst not said in-story. It was a cannon possibility the priest had orchestrated everything till then, trying to kill him in his sleep through his own apathy and depression.

Scene skip, he gets greeted by the non-presence (?) of the outlines of someone he knew (but couldn't quite recall?) and blah blah blah. Nice short symbolic stuff. But hell, I sorta hate presenting stuff when I don't know if I truly want to. After that was the closing scene, where truly awake, he recalled little, and simply back his head from being so close to the fire. Then the scenes where he met some villagers, yet ignored their plea as the armed men clamed taxes on their (implied) injust terms. He wondered if the lesson was to so not doubt himself, and carry-on. As he always had. He carried on, for it was not his concern. (A more than once mentioned sentence: implied: not his destiny.)

And after that scene was the finale: a church guy on horseback pompously mentioning him to yield or prepare for justice, and him who, unimpressed, ignores the excentric loaf with no armor and but a sword. Turning his back, and hearing no pursuit.

Then multiple versions. First would've been sorta enough. Revised time-doable finale would've been a simple flashback to a goblin he killed in a dual, stalling for time before death as he kept surrounding orcs from boredom. Perhaps no mention of how he got out of that, even. (stupid troll and luck and destiny showing how puny vulnerable he was, but man would've that been so hard to word out succinctly at my then level of stress. Serisouly a day was more than enough for the last scenes, but, I didn't feel like even showing it. Anyhow, I got my cannon, but the important would've been to mention how he calmly stepped forward – and lifted his sword, but was then halted in, and not in pity, for he saw the goblin's eyes, full of hatred and purpose. What purpose, he would never know, but his reaction and hesitation let the goblin strike him lightly as it died. Shaming him before the orcs, that cheered, and not for him. Etc... I wrote it first person, and man was I not in mind to somewhat objectively reread my story. But the important part was that something in the pain that hit him, and the charging – yelling – behind him, set his apathy to rage. It was a half-chiseled attempt at poetry, like so much of the story, written in a light prose, but man was I in a mood to just loathe myself. Writting to strain myself, I do for kicks, but the idea of straining myself further for a deadline, for others? It attached my mind to much to those years of father beating me up for not being first in class. And beating me even futher when I told him I actually was first in my class. Yeah. I hate the idea of straining myself, willingly or not, for others. Bad memories. What do you want? I'm weak like that. But it's a weakness I can pity and forgive. ... I, am not kind out of selfless altruism I like to advance, yet I don't actually care. I just dislike the idea of people stereotyping me as "willing to be bothered by gratuituous demand for help" so I lazily say such things, sometimes. I say "I'm not a kind person" but really, I just don't really want to bother to speak. They just kept bothering on a bad – please leave me alone – day.

Whoo for useless rants. Perhaps I would hobby less on those in next years? Thing is, I'm flowing more and more to an abstract decision: yes, I may have undetermined expenses in coming years, what with wanting to check for formal studies for my hobbies, even the weak –might do– hobbies. And what with wanting a betted home for my hobbies. But no, I don't guess it's truly fine to block myself from increasing my minimal expenses from basic food and logging to; that plus maybe more than the weakest nudge in art and hobby stuff.

Hell, I could buy a tablet thing and scribble wrond or accidently smash it. Or find it also uncomfortable to write on, seeing as: keyboard thingy? Man. Even waste it under rainy weather? Or get caught, feeling unsatisfied at the waste, as I don't use it outside or inside? –I still feel like an old tramway when I move outside in a boring and dreary place: The people here don't utterly differ from me in how they appreciate things either I believe: Hardly anyone outside a whistling or admiring the sights. Rather, they lost in their own worlds, when they do walk.

I never liked elevator-level occupied, when walking. It doesn't make people appealing to look at, so what do I look at. when walking in a place where buildings hide the sunrise, and you can't even walk-up public places to look? First floor sub-urbs bore me alot. Sure, I could walk up a roof, but each such thing makes me feel odd: not at home. I'm familiar with stuff that bores me.

So, After the story thing that bothered my morale, I was a tad bit annoyed. Irrate. Then someone knocks at my door very insistently. She does that when in less a good mood. She came to tell me of the RV with the doctor at 9 the day after. Thing I already knew. And mentioned distrust that I may not be awake. I have no idea if I even missed being ready for any visit since I lived here, but hell, since my roomate left early, —presumably out of anguish— I've had a relatively good mood. I can handle the upstairs stuff as long as I don't fancy to stress or neglect myself. And ugh. How many years and times have I told her to not bother me needlessly? She may have her own curriculum, but I've oft had to clear my days afore her visits to reduce chance of burnout at the interaction. Because when I babble to her half tired and irrate, she tends to babble even more about how I am unable to live well for I am not happy. And then insist even more at implying that what they demand of me is better than naught. Advancing reasons that ambiguously imply I am inept to change my own situation, and that their decisions are better. They insist to say that what they want or try is better, and do so without ambiguity. Yet when I mention how many things they had me do that didn't do anything, they change subject. To be honest, the current one does it passively alot. Still overall, certain things I can never discuss as they aren't on schedule. Yet, while they supposedly work for my betterment, even telling me sometimes, —in unfounded words— that they serve my will. But quite clearly, they never gave a true clear statement that they served my will or my order in their actions. And only said so clearly in wordings when dismissing my annoyance at them saying what I wanted, when I said that I never wanted that. I stated clearly more than once that I never wanted that objective they were stating as my desire, but whatever. They dismiss me as unimportant when I disagree with them. I'm not sure how much I waste my time. Since forever I only kept them because they could transport me places, and I really hate walking/taking the bus beyond the horizon. Kilometers. Yet they have this tendency to occaisionally harrass me in bothers. Asking me if I know to switch underwear. Or if I remembered to buy soap. Or atleast something about this or that in an implied, yet not forthright manner. Things that I would find outright rude to insist upon, coming from a stranger. And they are no more to me: who they are, I don't know. Apart what I can plainly see, I learned more from their random phone conversations with others than from themselves. They act as if I should not ask them of themselves, yet pry into my stuff, which strictly regarding, they have no special right to do without my consent, any more than any stranger.

Some people expect you to treat them kindly too much. Fact is, I may not act all disagreeable in extremes to them, but they irritate me to degrees they might not be guessing, if they care. And they surely don't ask. They simply don't. Perhaps they never did, come to think of it. Almost like father: father did ask if he bothered me: to mock me. Along with the animal noises. The spoiled brat comments, sheep, cow, and crybaby. Funny thing: I don't recall father ever playing with me beyond giving me a ball or object and going away. Actually, we played chess when he decided so. And he attempted to play me once or twice before getting bored. But each time he explained the purpose by saying it was some sort of normal activity. Much like when he attempt so many other unusual things. It was dumb.

And that's what it all boils down to: my story, my life: it was dumb. My story ended with him defeating that dragoner out of an inspired rage. The goblin hadn't given up: orc runt, fated to die useless, even more so than other orcs. But did the goblin give up? No. It simply died. Trying something. For a purpose it couldn't attain. And after the goblin died merely scratching him in a vain feat, he had feared dying to a towering troll, only to be saved by the bell, then knocked out, bones crunched, in a single movement, and abandoned like trash. Luck or fate, he reviled and obessed even more in proving himself. That he wasn't wrong in his beliefs, and perhaps, he missed the point.

After defeating the dragoner, he laughed at himself. His moment of rage, spurred him. He hadn't wanted to die like the goblin, pursuing something beyond pain. Yet like the goblin, he couldn't abandon his will to his fate. Locking swords with the pamper, he had seen the eyes of anger and cowardice, and he had judged and judged and judged. Yet he realised his true will, and laughed at himself. Even gifting himself a name. Arturae: the strength of the heathens. In story, the intro presented destiny as the hope of the heathens. But yeah. I, am not proud of that stories actual form in writing, stressed as I was, I'd expect it clunky even if I didn't consider myself bad at writing. Too bad I can never approve of me.

Anyhow, after he questioned the villagers, asking them why they had saved him from his dying wound. They told him it was in exchange for a horse, and because he had defeated a dragoner. (Implied, those villagers did not like the tax raisers much.)
And to that, well, I suppose he laughed? I didn't quite final a decision there. But he would or laugh or get a small seizure, perhaps middle ground? In any case, he was so touched by the unexpected kindness, from those villagers he hadn't helped, that he stayed for a while. Helping out with work to be done, teaching them of his skills, and telling stories of his travels, of news and legends from far away, and stories, stories of dragons.

The hell I just love the idea of storytelling. Hell, if I weren't so embarrassed, I'd like to be a story-teller in some hospital for a while, just for the experience. Would need to be armed with books though; I can't always invent a tale on the fly. Especially not always a merry one. Depends on my mood.

Anyhow, the story: ah. My notes are so garbled on paper: Last written thing is: "And he gifted himself a name, nor human –red– and nor orcish –green–
it was Arturae, the strength of the heathens.

For it was not his destiny that moved him, but he that made it possible.
And he would die to no coward."
Ahh, typical dumb me. My scenes all messed around, complete notes all enough to be distinguished, but oh so everywhere. That was the last thing I wrote on paper, as I write not in order, and yeah. Average nonsense. Perhaps good enough that it could cut for that passage, but eh. (Except the red/green part? On paper it's sur-imposed: meaning I hadn't decided how or what to write in final. That up there is an okayish placeholder? Back when I was transcribing things to computer, that would've made me angst harder. I mean, I genuinely didn't actaully want to force myself to anything. Stupid me. Very stupid.

Anyhow, the almost last written. (5th last) Was: When he finally parted, he looked back as he went, for the first time. And for the first time, he travelled the lands, to travel the lands. (Written in small after: for no longer did he doubt.)

Perhaps that small written thing would've been trashed out, or just put in italics. I hate italics. When I make a mashed up chorus of different-mooded writing styles like so many mashed up, different sized guns. I can only get flustered at what shoots what ammo of what caliber: The different styles are just so potentially different in use of stuff like italics. I don't favor italics, but hell, do I need a BBC code editor, and some chosen writing program. Heh. I decided this back then, and I'm confirming with myself as my mood goes around to my different 'personalities': I should maybe just buy some art-related stuff. No cheapskating my daily life needs, cause really, my dumb is getting repeated and boring.

To say, what is dumb? Well, doing stuff without intelligent planing or reflexes. No matter how pre-planned or not. A pre-conditioned reflex that you have that ain't something you made yourself have is part of your dumbness. A pre-conditioned reflex you taught yourself for a purpose isn't exactly dumb. Example: reflex shots for an FPS player. Or reflex jumps when I run on ice or fences. But, things you do by reflex or instinct that ain't planned by anyone as far as you know: dumb. As far as you know. Subconsciousness is tricky, and much luck comes from beyond coincidence. And don't get me started about gods. But, dumb is dumb. It's okay, it's life.

You got cancer? Dumb luck, or really horrible self-loathing act of microwave exposure? Whatever. Deal with your luck and your dumbness, yes, you can ask help, but your life purpose is still your job, should you define it. So don't just call your life horrible, whine about while beating your child, and call it a day. Dumb fathger, he never wanted to seriously speak of himself. No matter what it was, he stated his life in fact: I am a good parent. A good parent does this. A good child does this. Spoiled brat. I'm not hitting you, it's self-defense. If you didn't stress me so much, I wouldn't have to punish you. You're forced me to punish you so much that I don't have the time to search for a job. Blah blah blah. All very rough translations, but yeah, he was consistently, unopen to discussion.

On his good days, he would mention memory loss, only to state he obviously wouldn't forget anything important. But on some days, it was very obvious he was trying to forget actions he just did. And clearly unhappy. Hatefully silent, staring too intently at his computer screen, moreso then usual. If unlucky or stupid enough to make him react then, sometimes he would become crazed and berserk. Hitting until he met physical or mental exhaustion. He's got issues. Probably still has, but as long as he doesn't take up some new responsability in a bad way again.

Ehh... It's tiring when you can't defeat the villain. But people who are shifting, sometimes worthy of being called insane by some standards. Yet otherwise perfectly polite and intelligent, yet. offish individuals? I stand by simple principles: if a soldier dies in combat, okay. If they don't, what can you do with them? They are not their leaders, so precise and fair judgement? You wish... Politics are so messy.

Normal in politics though, is that the modern state cannot fully care for children, instead, their parents or other caretakers are responsible. And in this fact, a child's agreement isn't required. Whatever. I could've throwed a tantrum at the right time and got lucky, for what? To tempt luck with the state? Clearly it wasn't made for people like me. My treatment in court, when young, was affected by due respect to the parental authority of my father. They let him speak for me, in my presence, after he cut my response to a question explicitly asked to me. And they continued to ask only of him as he squeezed my shoulder. Eh.. Why the heck did they even accept to have him so close to my side during the whole thing, did he speak to them of my need for his proximity beforehand? He's done more twisted things, I saw. So maybe.

I can't say my father is a pathological liar, not exactly: he tends to succeed. If only because he knows when to shut-up, to a degree. Altough he's often lied to me in such ways, I don't know if I would've been more normal to be offended by his casual appreciation of my intellect, or his casual appreciation of what I could do about it, or just be offended by how much more seriously he took any teacher when it came to keeping a good image as a parent. But really, he's gonna be so much old news in the near future. If I do go ahead,.. ehh.. So much for nothing. So many useless emotions and memories. My childhood life is worth no funeral: is/was never a good thing. Not to me. Just a repeat of dumbness.

The dumb – can – always repeats itself: humans have warred with rocks and nuclear bombs. Yes: we used two in a war, didn't we? Or was it one-sided? A mere demonstration of power? Humans did so many things like that. And whine however we may, the – shock! – of today, is a page of history, tommorow. Hell do I not like those americans though: sometimes. Sometimes they just show the might and power of their moneybags, and their grotesque weight. I love shock tactics, and am leery of their CIA stuff. But man, just man. When people are so powerful that it becomes a sub-culture to shake forth the weight and power of your own position?

Gods. Rich people don't become rich because they spend without counting. So really, I just hate when people wave their impunity and fortune, sometimes. Hell, like the world in general, now that "we will win through" ain't a la mode, they did get a tad prettier. Their society cleaning-itself up like any proper business. But hell, they still ain't the best looking. I mean, for the little I care, their politics still got too much propaganda flair. Eh. But Star Wars is also popular, and yeah it is quite deep, culture-wise. But still stars epic moments of waving laser swords; As if the glory of knights was in their flashy, unreal fighting, backed up with the "force". It's like dual shotgun wielding heroes shooting bad guys that all get enough screen time to look surprised, 'cept more post-modern. Yes. Even the books are flashy, but somewhat better. And those books cut alot less in the thinking and trickery department. Even if the double-reversals are rather common. It's almost a running gag.

So, dumb is dumb. But when I'm stupid?

Stupid is when you realise you ain't smart, but you still ain't gettin' smart. Perhaps you're some gung-ho protagonist like in the movies, never needed to cover your own faults, yet never suffering. I'm not like that: I often suffered my idiocy, I just don't admit it's my fault, cutting straight to getting over it. Yet I do wish to not miss to apologise, and respect those who do as much. But seriously, I ain't gonna bother a crowd twice to apologise if they would ressent it more should I do so. So no, I ain't apologising to everyone cause one guy's a-yelling at me. And man have I seeing abnoxious people. Especially crowd pleasing bullies, and similiars. Shouting their worth to the world.

I like to think they are there to remind us of the true reasons we should give some days a bad rating: They are just so wonderful!

On a good day, remember how they contribute through their absence!

Life is truly wonderful. Somedays: everything is bad. And other days, everything is good. Yep.

I'll have to invest in that, and in myself. Still slowly resetting the stubborn decisions that are my scars. Forgetting my apathy.

I love to learn, so much that I like to play as if I forgot, at times. To just learn to throw a ball again. Or how I would act if much was simply new to me. To learn to write with both hands, or draw in diffrent ways. Still, I hate the idea of people knowing me more than I know myself in some play of mine. The idea of what they could do is disturbing. And that limits how far I immerse myself in the day. I guess I could still do lucid dreaming, oh well.

Sometimes being stupid ain't cause you got a bad hair day. Sometimes it's old childhood apathy, or an old something you never solve. Perhaps a relationship problem? People are always bigots at the worst possible moments. Just like they always find stuff in the last place they search. Really. Like any good tyrant, we're all big jerks. Some do it cool though, and some are just lame excuses.

And oh, oohh was I stupid. That person bothered me so cause I was unprepared, annoyed, annoyed further by how she repeated to me how I must do this because I wasn't happy in life. As if I couldn't simply refuse, she repeated the same arguements, adding no value as she made me unhappier, while claiming my unhappiness as support. Eh, how often she has annoyed me. And overall, the best I ever had from them was a direct demand they took about two years to get on. It part because they keep on scheduling other unwanted things first. I mean seriously: psychologist: just laze about and talk. It was like additional stress relief time in mostly silent company. I really just need to talk to no-one in particular to get better. Also more bored, but it's still a long road of untapped progress.

I'm really more interested in the exciting stuff. Sometimes too much. Like my food addiction: I eat more than I truly need if my hobbies don't help me calibrate things. So yeah, diversify. I'm lame and predictable. Doing too much laze-time of all sorts rather than too little.

Next days: more batman, arkham city? Got it on steam, but howdy, fleeflow fighting is so different to get a hang of without a controller. Maybe buy one? One day?

Then continued this latest writing as I care. A nice piece I so far nickname "The Everfree Vault Expedition". Basic premise: Celestia hid many other things before her demise, of which the Vaults. During her reign, there appeared many technologies and bits of knowledge she would rather not spread upon Equestria. And there was also the problem of those truly passionate ponies that lived for research, and could not contain the excitement of their knowledge. So she made the vaults, that secret held things kept away for times of need. And those truly savant ponies would sometimes be offered to join them.

The motto of the vaults, so far: "Knowledge can enter freely, but freely it may not leave." Ah.

Writing it first person. But man,.. Thinking of posting it on finfic would be weird now, as I write on paper, in a notebook. And I have no tablet to write as I wander. Hell, I don't know if I would like it. To repeat: typing on a small keyboard? Hmm.

Besides, to re-read without boring myself at the final version; unless I one pass it, I must be in some relax environment. And man, here there are no areas with both gentle flow and gentle breeze. Mostly because: noise pollution. And air pollution. Watery sounds are drowned, fresh air does not survive. And no tall skyscraper above the noise with panoramic view, either. Nada. Heh, I'm too demanding, ain't I? But I can't walk that far any long in a day. And I ain't got no hiking place. I must say though: a simple statement of how alone I am in relations: I know no birthday of any but myself by heart. And santa/jesus. Ofcourse, but everyone knows that one. Well, I surely don't care to have my birthday itself known. It's even potentially embarassing, but I guess it's no good to keep a hard policy on that one. In all, I share no continuity in relationships of much personal matter. Although some are kind.

Honestly, that makes me think of this eventual st-valentine's day. I mean, I never had good reason to do much there: I'm way far from romancing anyone seriously, and a shy sort of lightly messing with messages of that. Way too prude for my finnicky, but I'm not strain testing my bashfullness upon strangers. I just ain't chatty recently. Need more computer comfort for that. Not responding to every email those social folks send me about impromptu RV date changes doesn't help. But hell, they really just informed me of their decided change, only to expect me to respond to 'em presto. Talk about stress I didn't need. They didn't tend to answer in any useful way if I asked something, if at all. Like always. Hate that they don't say "I don't know", instead always changing or choosing subject. Bother.

I atleast gained info I value from my teachers at school. Even if nothing irreplaceable. I also learned personal quirks of my teachers, of all sorts, that I actually sorta care of, apparently. Guess I'm not a full fledged psycho-yet. Although I hope I can act like one if I want. Hate dilemmas. The long ones. Only things were I don't know what to do, yet care enough to bother. Oh Luna bite me fiercely, please.

Hmm. This Everfree Vault Expedition tale might be cool, might be weak. Arrgh. But I really need to buy a better writing medium, and a better life panorama. Sunlight is never quite great in this apart, and outside, even in sunny seasons, is sorta asphalt-y. Yet this thing's clearly likely to go outta hand. From stand-alone first-person that I'm unconfident to quality check. To downright first person probably in relation to my other prelude era fic-ideas. It's so easily to fold out the ideas though: it's basically equestria going down with OCs and no mane six right there, but no polarized heroics or fate that must happen: If I decided some vault secret got out, it could be another vault.

Love my work so far. Not 24 hours and I got four character persos to work with. With silhoutte of more to shape as story goes. I think this one I'll commit from first person perspective: no making cannon character stories beyond the protag progression in it: apart cannon characters, all is re-writable.

I've got five mentioned non-background ponies, and some rough-outs.
Short Sprint, protag. Earth pony. Cutie mark about sprinting? Quick-witted, nice, cowardly. Solitary but social, he is a worrier. Only character that will defs stay till the end.
Capt. Dillo. Earth pony. Friendly counterpart to "bluntly named pony" Seriously but very social. Thinks of others in dangerous situations. Tries to lighten the mood.
Sergeant "bluntly named pony", earth pony? Imposing in action and body. Direct and slightly asocial. Brief. Merciless in teaching. Says impromptu speech about how ponies must learn to lead by conviction or be lead by it. As they can no longer wait for other ponies to fix what they won't. Inspires protag to be slightly less a coward. But, possible future villain in prelude? (very later, perhaps another fic if ever, prehaps nothing) He's also unloyal. Perhaps bossy.
And Sir (rank?) Tale Writer, earth pony. A simple gag, and I thought, who is that pony? Sensible to a fault when organisation is concerned: son of a pegasi adventurer, and an earth pony mare, he grew up in a small village. Fascinated by both tales of adventure and rumors of modern, gigantic cities. Passionate about things intricate beyond his belief or experience. Be they mythical beings or complex devices. Prone to excitements on contact. If somepony tried to kill him with an intricate ballistic device, he might swoon at the mechanical beauty of the thing. Man, I'm gonna like brainstorming stuff about his reactions within the vault. He's frantic to a fault though: he understands things with ease, but he always hoped to write tales, and not make them. Not wanting to risk his life. By the world setting though, he ended up a keen explorer/mercenary to ensure his safe providence. And he reassured his anxieties by becoming attached to doing the less risky, but important paperwork. It's part of that paperwork that "unamed blunt pony" threw into the Everfree to make a point: some ponies clinged to worthless things. They needed to adapt. They needed new leaders, starting now.
And then the only mare so far: Solo Aria? Solo Lightining? An important gaurdian of the Everfree Vault. Proefficient in lightning magic. Mixed close-to-mid-range fighter. Blinds targets with her lightining attacks, making her very tricky at close-range. Sorta mini-boss when they escape? This is why I really could use a tablet and some comfort: I could brainstorm alternative storylines so much easier. What I've got is a nice stump, could build into much more in some directions, but I really want to write this properly from start to finish, even if that means scrapping every following scene I've got. If she exists, she'll definitely try to stop them. Perhaps even exiting the vault if necessary. But all I've got truly grounded is her scornful pride and personality. And her reckless fighting style. Perfected to a fault: she fights just as she uses her authority, alone. Vulnerable to any good counter, but tought luck if you've just got armored earth ponies in a melee.

Ehh.. I think not much as I guess this, is not a useful rant. Nor beautiful in a common liked way. I mean, it's just non-artfully expressed text. Like newspapers. Just old pages of history.

Anyhow, I have so much to study if I wish to understand the coherency of things I do not. Or atleast know I it's worth it to stop caring. I'm not wishing to learn more painting techniques right now. That may spread to other full domains.

Still, no family means no biorythm. And really, I think I need some sort of heart beat. Something more than sun and moon and dreams. Something like the tides of water and life, but less contrived than language based entertainment. So, when I wake up, anime favorite catching up or batman AC or writing more in relation to dreams or this vault stuff, or just steampunkish equipment and ideas. (Hell, what if fantasy trolls ran within a fantasy world, full clad in armor, and no-one knew they were vulnerable to the sun; should the tough arcane rings around their legs be broken? Cause man, details details. Wondering if the vaults would be related to this or that. Because so many of the techs of The West I've thought out are like that. Weaknesses so much easier to exploit when you know how they work. It's helps The West that the other empires don't know the true reasons their knowledge is so secret. That and the council. But yeah. Perhaps it would be unwise of me to show as long as I'm writing. I tend to really just weird out when I lack the protection of privacy in my work. I ain't even truly started yet. Can't decide how much additional detail to perhaps add to large battles, of wether to just wrap-it up with so much not shown.

I still need to decide how much in myths. And how to integrate them. And what kind. I'm uneasy with the idea of going all out in all myths are true. But heh. Local-wise. Yeah. I have many kinds of myths. My guess is that I shouldn't force more. So heh. Less fodder, more intrigue and turnabouts, I guess? Because there are so many of those.

I can only try to do something I can approve. I don't even know if I will approve of having a social life. But extensive involvement with others when I frail comfort in email dynamics is a bit much. I genuinely don't trust those I cannot see, and don't trust this room I lurk in. It's stupid, but I simply don't have better on hand, and lack the motivation to do much on my own. Walking or taking a bus far away ain't no baby step, but nor is getting a car license with a car, either. And man would that complexify stuff. I just don't like the idea of driving on-road, not even a bit. I'd rather pass time foraging berry bushes, or searching for mushrooms, etc. Greater chance of random writing as I go. 'Lol'. Some things just ain't my style. 'lol':/. Just like I wouldn't normally throw thrash by long shot in a waste basket. It's simpler and more fun to sprint by accelerating against the walls. Also a tad faster. Hate weak walls that cramp my style though. Jumping through stairs is just lame in comparaison. Anyhow, enough useless stuff. Rants forever. And it ain't even a holiday I care of yet? Blah. Ate too much sugar, wanna run around, wanted to since a long time, yet stranded here, with nothing good to run for. Hate running in circles, rarely ever do it.

I hate exercise that takes my mental attention by it's intensity, yet doesn't satisfy my crave for frantic paced-coherent thought. Motivation-wise most video games can't cut that, either. I get bored of what repeats itself. I am too familiar with restraints that annoy me. Boring boring. I understand atleast part of the fascination of fire, and thus, pyromania: more change than you could ever want. In every detail of everyflame. Yet that sort of fascination folds with predictability and control. What I write can become predictable to myself, what I read sometimes, too much, too. Mose of what I read is agreeable, not novel. If I like it. Some people are hard to amaze. Eh? I've learned too many myths to not sleep away at the reading of another, most days. Not experienced at writing most of them sorts, though. Eh.

So much poetry I wish to write. Certain sorts of stories. That I might write well on a tablet thing, if the rapid typing is okay enough. Uses of a pencil? I just hate half mesures, and typing when sitting away from toys and objects just dulls me easy. Desk too small for many baubbles: lack furniture. And slow written poesie, however good, hardly rivals my quaint little dreams. Such weak.

When I say hate, I mean hate. That is, adamant dislike. Not seething hatred of the unending burns.
Really, I could ask if anything said good objectively is. Because good being good isn't even objectively true.
Strictly speaking, 1+1=2 ain't objectively true. It's an interpretation of concepts mingled with language. But the moon exists and so does Luna, /end fact. I mean, seriously. I never was taught much faith in the importance of spoken language. Or written equivelants. Fast written words fade so quickly. So, why care of every word written? Because it matters. But as much as it matters, as much I disdain others beholding what is precious to me. Not hate. I hate the idea, at times. Merely disdain. Always. Some say all people need social contact, if no further condition is added, I disagree. Some say suicide is wrong. I disagree. It's a valid word that has meaning, not a prank from Loki. For me, the worst crimes are in the most desperate values: incitation. Incitation to violence, murder, rape, even suicide. But not only those. And not always those. Certain types of mockery and incitation, make for the most humiliating and demening acts of parjury and trivialisation.

When all is basically fair, I believe the moral worst is not to abuse power for gain. No, it is the well aimed insult, all the more if it doesn't look graceful for sport. Just the penumbra of mockery and hate. So to speak, it's a very cultural thing. And gods, does being unique in culture not always serve me well.

To put a note on those tags, writing in frenzies of two to three word clauses, be they sharp or common, intersected sentences, or run ons. Can be an art. Yet I still wonder, what profit to share. But then: it ain't profit, it's just gain. Arbitrary gain, cause you don't sacrifice anything: you enact a choice. That's why, when bored, I have no motive of profit. Save this? Pheh. you could promise 'anything', and I'd just wonder why I'd care. But seriously, I might be all curious about why. Why does a thing attract my attention? Eh? If science can't explain that, it can't stop the power and pertinence of religion. Good luck getting an answer beyond tautology, though? I don't even care to think of it right now.

Good night. Pale winter sky.

Comments

[L00PMAN]

I would read but I would probably either stop or get too sad from reading it.

No need for a giant rant like this,

Just summarize it

[Rushed Fame]

3690745

Huh. Nothing too important. Just daily sleepy ramble.

I like to multitask a lot. So when I get tired, I do all sorts of useless stuff to keep busy.

You needn't care.