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| ...or can they be called people at all? I'm talking about hackers and spammers here. I know this isn't my usual type of post (and I post way too seldom, I know...) but this really bugs me. I mean, why on earth would you want to spam and hack some bands message board? Hello, go bug the boys at Pentagon or something. Those idiots made my computer crash several times. If I had hacking skills, they's feel my wrath.
What IS the point of random hacking? Just to annoy people? Get a life.
On a positive note though, rasberry tea is certainly good.
Oh and what are those new things there? Nudge, memories and chatboard? Have I just been blind before and not notice them? Cos it's quite possibly so=D. Someone tell me?
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| He watched her. Everyday, every given possibility. He saw her laugh with friends, he saw her pick flowers to put on a vase on a Mother's Day. He knew, she was out everyday on the street where they both lived. Walking through the little shops, stopping to talk to strangers, listening to a funny little story that the owner of a little Asian foodshop was so fond of telling - he had never heard it. She was alive with the fire inside, alive as no woman he had seen before. Her lust for life, her laughter... It wasn't as if she was spectaculary beautiful, but things like that don't matter at the end of the day, he knew. She was for him, that was what mattered.
He had never talked to her. He knew he didn't exist in her world, but dreams were for dreaming, right? And dreams never come true. That was a hard lesson to learn, but he had learned oh so well, for oh so long time now. You see, he was just like everyone else. And that is the worst you can be in this time of the world. Everyone he knew were looking for that one "special person", all the time, as if that could make their lives complete. He knew better. The girl in his street wouldn't make his life complete, but he knew, he just knew, that if she noticed him, talked to him... he'd have something. Maybe she would make him beautiful. Maybe she would think of him as beautiful. She would, for certain! How could she not, she seemed to see beauty in everything and that was her charm.
He never talked to her. He knew the words to say, he had dreamt of them for some time now, but to speak... it was so long ago when he had last spoken. Then it came to him, in a dream, as these things do. He would write to her, a proper letter. He knew where she lived after all, what could be more natural!
So he picked up his pen and took a crisp white sheet of paper and did his best. Frowning in concentration, he thought up words, the best frases for what he had in mind. His pen flowed with beauty, the paper filled with longing, from him to her. He was good. He felt as if she could almost hear him, scribbling away in the dark of the night. He nearly giggled out loud, just out of pure excitement. And when he was finished, he slipped out. His heart racing, nearly coming out of chest, he padded to her door (luckily on the first floor) and slipped the envelope, cream in colour through her mailbox. Heaving a sigh of relief, which was also a one of nervousness, he turned and walked home.
He couldn't speak about his deed to anyone. He laid on his bed, heart still thumping. And didn't, couldn't sleep. He laid there until the morning came. He wondered when she would find the letter, what she would think of it, when she would reply. How she would reply. For she had to!
It was nearly lunchtime, when he heard it. The clank of mailbox, it was unmistakable. "Don't be silly, it's just mail", he told himself, "it's just the electric bill". Still he couldn't stop his hands from sweating. Maybe it was her. You never knew. So, he went to the door, and there it was. A folded piece of paper, and it certainly wasn't an eletricity bill. With hands trembling ever so slightly he picked it up, opened it, smoothed out the creases and read it.
He never talked to her.
And she never would know.
(Hey someone who has never talked to me, don't sen me no more letters, ive a bro who'll kick ur ass if u try to come near me ever again. I know who you r, I seen u watch me, and just to let u kno, i dont do pervs.)
Bit clumsy, I know, but it was just an idea that I wanted to try out. Didn't turn out as good as I'd like it to be, but posted it anyhow=). It seems a bit hasty, but I wanted it short... oh well, feedback welcome and appreciated!
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| I have always loved the musical Phantom of the Opera more than the book. With great distinction, which says quite a lot, since I love music AND books beyond reason. I liked the book, but I have read it only twice. The musical, on the other hand I have heard hundreds of times. And I still get shivers from it's madness. Madness of the Phantom, as he is disformed and hidden under the Opera, writing his music for people to hear, never being seen. His love for all things dark, the music of the darkness, how he hears things not heard by hoi polloi.
All this, of course, is my imagination, my version of the play. It is the version I can understand. The overwhelming yearning for something beautiful, that cannot be on the outside but can only be found on emotion. The line "Help me write the music of the night" sung by Michael Crawford gives me the shivers, since he captures it so perfectly; hovering in the line between sanity and madness, unable to stay in either but having to go on till the bitter end. The yearning for beauty so much greater than reason, beauty that is all that matters...
And I am reminded of the lines in Secret History, by Donna Tartt;
- Death is the mother of beauty.
- And what is beauty?
- Terror. Whenever we see something beautiful, we quiver before it.
And that's why the Phantom is the outcast. He is the monster with the beauty inside, his only outward beauty in Christine, who is but a vessel to him, a channel to create. And as she flightily discovers love and protection for herself, the madness truly takes hold of the monster's soul...
Do I have the beauty in me? Or do I have the madness... all I feel is that I sometimes hover on the chasm, nearly falling. Forgetting myself and the world, just finding beauty...
- Music of the Night | | |
| Well, this is my first entry, and I'm rather unsure what I should write here.
A bad omen, as I aspire to be a writer...=)
And the bottom line is, I have really nothing to say at the moment! It is now 4.17 am and I should have gone to bed HOURS ago. No wonder I cannot muster a coherent thought. And the truth is, this happens quite often; I am a bit of an imsomniac. I have trouble getting sleep, and I frequently toss and turn at my bed, unable to fall into dreams. Therefore I think I put off getting to bed itself, because I dread not sleeping, just trying to find a comfortable position to lay in, until no position IS comfortable.
Until finally sleeping and again waking up, never getting enough sleep.
So I dare say I'll be posting here at night-time.
Good night!
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