"Pacing, Exhausted, Beat"
I'm Pacing.
Not only the depths of myself,
but the halls of my home.
Drawn between choice, I find it only
necessary to Pace.
Tell me to stop, Go Ahead!
At least someone will be giving me
a legitimate answer to
one question in my life...
'Should I stop Pacing?'
Monday, October 25, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Having a great day?
"ihaven'tbeenanywhere"
SHow me a street,
a place, a face,
I haven't seen.
SHow me your shattered
and broken glass
and I will call it a mirror.
TAke me down the abandoned street
and I'll call it heaven.
LEad me to the old house,
And I'll call it home.
And some art, to mix it up. Its a space bird about to seriously take down some scary thing. ENJOY!
SHow me a street,
a place, a face,
I haven't seen.
SHow me your shattered
and broken glass
and I will call it a mirror.
TAke me down the abandoned street
and I'll call it heaven.
LEad me to the old house,
And I'll call it home.
And some art, to mix it up. Its a space bird about to seriously take down some scary thing. ENJOY!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
DYSTOPIA!!!!!
another English Class gem for you. (You being all three people that read this! WOO!)
If it doesn't make sense in the beginning, read 'til the end..it shall.
“Nothing makes sense anymore,” he muttered under this breath. In the background, whined some unmelodic tune they define as music. They defined everything; even the dictionary did not make sense. “Nothing makes sense anymore,” This time these words threw themselves upon the blank wall in Arthur’s room. A white wall, now given life; life no other being, inanimate or animate, knows. Red. Poignant, vivid Red. Beauty at its finest. The Words freshly dripped down from the place on the wall, to show his passion, show his meaning. He knew that it’d all be over in about thirty seconds. This all was a dream anyways.
He was trapped where he had been for about four years now. Arthur knew this was his last year, “Final Year” as it was called by all the attendees and educators. But at this point in his learning career, everything felt cold, useless, like all the pointless data he had been told was important and on the next exam was as far from necessary for his life beyond this year.
Bursts of cold shed their being on Arthur. He shuffled across the room to close the window. They finally allowed Final Year students to have open windows, be it their record was consistent and clear of any problems. Feeling the life-filled air get sucked out by the window shutting made Arthur think about all the book work he had left to due before tomorrow’s morning sessions began. He’d probably make up answers or get a hold of someone else’s work at morning meal before sessions began. None of the educators cared anyways. They barely were paid enough to put a decent amount of food on the table for evening meal, so it goes.
Knocking awoke Arthur out of his inept thoughts. “Well, it took him long enough this time,” he thought out loud. There were sensors on every window at New Era Preparatory School, so as soon as an attendee opened and shut a window, someone, usually a Final Year attendee who was in charge, came by to make sure no one had jumped out said window or in worse cases, broken the window. Luckily for Arthur, the boy in charge of his hall was Arthur’s tutor for math.
“Everything check out all right, A-Squared?” Samson hollered through the door.
“Yes sir. Just getting some fresh air. All this bookwork is making me ill. Good thing we have off day after next.” Arthur replied, whole-heartedly knowing he opened the window to get rid of the paint fumes.
“Don’t I know it.” Samson had always had Arthur’s approval, except for that horrible nick-name he gave Arthur when he started tutoring him back in Third Year. Just because a boy replaces an “A” variable, with a squared term of the same value, does not mean one should go about calling him a horrible, pointless nick-name.
Walking down to morning meal was always a hassle. Thirty boys in each hall piled into the staircases which were filled with the eight other halls that comprised the housing unit Arthur called home. Getting the meal and finding a place to try and enjoy it was an entirely new crusade by itself. The boys were constantly watched during this entire process. Leading the way in the newest technologies ‘of the future’, New Era Preparatory School had their eyes on every attendee in any place at any time of any day. Control Boarders had nothing else do to but sit and watch their monitors streaming from every lens of every camera perched on every wall in every room of every building at New Era Prep. Every action had its consequence. At least that is what the boys were taught from day one. New Era had a way of inflicting conformity, precision, and serenity without lifting a single one of its intangible fingers. Ever since the New Societal Campaign was installed into law five years ago, almost every school in the nation was this way. Arthur knew only this kind of composed education. His parents were number one on the list to sign him up for ‘New School’, as it was so aptly named by the committee assigned to fix education in the country when all hope seemed loss in the intelligence of a new generation. Any half-educated-liberal-politic-aficionado was driven to stand behind anything ‘new’ and promising with full force and full bank accounts. For the children, the new attendees of these schools, this meant twelve month schooling, difficult courses, and educators and peers that would push them to become something above average.
For Arthur, all this meant was that as long as he kept his grades amid perfection and kept out of trouble, his parents were pleased.
At the head of the meal line, Arthur spoke to a couple of boys he knew in the science class of which he still needed to complete the assigned bookwork. He managed to get a hold of the assignment with relative ease and before his meal was cold.
Opening his science book, Arthur caught a glimpse of a bright red brush mark of paint along the deteriorated spine. At first he was convinced that it was just a hallucination. Being it before sunrise on the last morning before the end of the week, he knew it was completely possible that the streak was not real. “A quick glimpse back, just to make sure,” he thought. “I know I wasn’t even near my science assignments last night when I had the paint out…wasn’t I?” Too bad for Arthur a camera precariously perched at the end of the table answered the question of whether or not the mark was real or not before he could.
A loud, monotonous voice broke the arid silence of the meal hall…“ARTHUR PETERSON: REPORT TO THE OFFICES OF REPRIMAND WITH YOUR VIOLATED TEXT BOOK.”
Arthur stopped breathing in response to the announcement. For a few, timeless seconds Arthur dangled in the presence of death. Thinking that maybe if he held his breath long enough, he might fall over and they’d pity him. No one ever gets called down to Reprimand during meal at New Era Prep. The meal hall in entirety turned to stare Arthur down with an intensity that instantly brought him to perspire. He gasped, but more or less wheezed like a ninety year old asthma patient.
Too many thoughts were crashing through Arthur’s conscious mind at once; thoughts that made no sense to him. Every meaningless ounce of human reaction Arthur possessed was screaming at him. He just visualized his parents getting the daily update from the Headmaster. His father sitting back and sighing and his mother standing up and walking out the door of their home outside of the city and sauntering into the almost green garden she cultivated only in the autumn of every year…
annnnnnnnd a photo?
If it doesn't make sense in the beginning, read 'til the end..it shall.
“Nothing makes sense anymore,” he muttered under this breath. In the background, whined some unmelodic tune they define as music. They defined everything; even the dictionary did not make sense. “Nothing makes sense anymore,” This time these words threw themselves upon the blank wall in Arthur’s room. A white wall, now given life; life no other being, inanimate or animate, knows. Red. Poignant, vivid Red. Beauty at its finest. The Words freshly dripped down from the place on the wall, to show his passion, show his meaning. He knew that it’d all be over in about thirty seconds. This all was a dream anyways.
He was trapped where he had been for about four years now. Arthur knew this was his last year, “Final Year” as it was called by all the attendees and educators. But at this point in his learning career, everything felt cold, useless, like all the pointless data he had been told was important and on the next exam was as far from necessary for his life beyond this year.
Bursts of cold shed their being on Arthur. He shuffled across the room to close the window. They finally allowed Final Year students to have open windows, be it their record was consistent and clear of any problems. Feeling the life-filled air get sucked out by the window shutting made Arthur think about all the book work he had left to due before tomorrow’s morning sessions began. He’d probably make up answers or get a hold of someone else’s work at morning meal before sessions began. None of the educators cared anyways. They barely were paid enough to put a decent amount of food on the table for evening meal, so it goes.
Knocking awoke Arthur out of his inept thoughts. “Well, it took him long enough this time,” he thought out loud. There were sensors on every window at New Era Preparatory School, so as soon as an attendee opened and shut a window, someone, usually a Final Year attendee who was in charge, came by to make sure no one had jumped out said window or in worse cases, broken the window. Luckily for Arthur, the boy in charge of his hall was Arthur’s tutor for math.
“Everything check out all right, A-Squared?” Samson hollered through the door.
“Yes sir. Just getting some fresh air. All this bookwork is making me ill. Good thing we have off day after next.” Arthur replied, whole-heartedly knowing he opened the window to get rid of the paint fumes.
“Don’t I know it.” Samson had always had Arthur’s approval, except for that horrible nick-name he gave Arthur when he started tutoring him back in Third Year. Just because a boy replaces an “A” variable, with a squared term of the same value, does not mean one should go about calling him a horrible, pointless nick-name.
Walking down to morning meal was always a hassle. Thirty boys in each hall piled into the staircases which were filled with the eight other halls that comprised the housing unit Arthur called home. Getting the meal and finding a place to try and enjoy it was an entirely new crusade by itself. The boys were constantly watched during this entire process. Leading the way in the newest technologies ‘of the future’, New Era Preparatory School had their eyes on every attendee in any place at any time of any day. Control Boarders had nothing else do to but sit and watch their monitors streaming from every lens of every camera perched on every wall in every room of every building at New Era Prep. Every action had its consequence. At least that is what the boys were taught from day one. New Era had a way of inflicting conformity, precision, and serenity without lifting a single one of its intangible fingers. Ever since the New Societal Campaign was installed into law five years ago, almost every school in the nation was this way. Arthur knew only this kind of composed education. His parents were number one on the list to sign him up for ‘New School’, as it was so aptly named by the committee assigned to fix education in the country when all hope seemed loss in the intelligence of a new generation. Any half-educated-liberal-politic-aficionado was driven to stand behind anything ‘new’ and promising with full force and full bank accounts. For the children, the new attendees of these schools, this meant twelve month schooling, difficult courses, and educators and peers that would push them to become something above average.
For Arthur, all this meant was that as long as he kept his grades amid perfection and kept out of trouble, his parents were pleased.
At the head of the meal line, Arthur spoke to a couple of boys he knew in the science class of which he still needed to complete the assigned bookwork. He managed to get a hold of the assignment with relative ease and before his meal was cold.
Opening his science book, Arthur caught a glimpse of a bright red brush mark of paint along the deteriorated spine. At first he was convinced that it was just a hallucination. Being it before sunrise on the last morning before the end of the week, he knew it was completely possible that the streak was not real. “A quick glimpse back, just to make sure,” he thought. “I know I wasn’t even near my science assignments last night when I had the paint out…wasn’t I?” Too bad for Arthur a camera precariously perched at the end of the table answered the question of whether or not the mark was real or not before he could.
A loud, monotonous voice broke the arid silence of the meal hall…“ARTHUR PETERSON: REPORT TO THE OFFICES OF REPRIMAND WITH YOUR VIOLATED TEXT BOOK.”
Arthur stopped breathing in response to the announcement. For a few, timeless seconds Arthur dangled in the presence of death. Thinking that maybe if he held his breath long enough, he might fall over and they’d pity him. No one ever gets called down to Reprimand during meal at New Era Prep. The meal hall in entirety turned to stare Arthur down with an intensity that instantly brought him to perspire. He gasped, but more or less wheezed like a ninety year old asthma patient.
Too many thoughts were crashing through Arthur’s conscious mind at once; thoughts that made no sense to him. Every meaningless ounce of human reaction Arthur possessed was screaming at him. He just visualized his parents getting the daily update from the Headmaster. His father sitting back and sighing and his mother standing up and walking out the door of their home outside of the city and sauntering into the almost green garden she cultivated only in the autumn of every year…
annnnnnnnd a photo?
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