The Door (LJ Idol Entry)
Do words live? Has mass media given words the ability to do so? Words create worlds, but journals weren't considered living 20 years ago, with the ability to make notation anywhere, with a wide selection of applications and equipment. We had a desk, not a desktop. Will this make words immortal or infinitesimal? In history, some words last a thousand years while some manifest and melt in mere moments. The worlds and words are electrified while current.
These were the thoughts of the contestant, now a nervous wreck of energy. Insecurity mounted as he cautiously applied for entry to LJ Idol. Just as infectious as information had spread over two decades, so his thoughts raced against him since waking. The misanthrope he was fretted over securing the space required exclusively on demand of the proceeding. Before, he'd considered the neighborhood only slightly more respectable than a picture book, but he'd done worse. Surely LJ Idol couldn't be as intellectually stunting as some of his past dealings in online role playing or fan fiction. As a stick in the mud, he often found himself outmoded, rooted in times past and fearing new things, fads, trends, or even change. Surely the world was shaping with time, as nothing was static. He would simply have to adapt.
A common metaphor was the opening of a door. Perhaps he could walk through the doorway now that it presented itself so clearly. He even had bits of guidance. He'd told his mother his intention on professionalism as she preened her youngest baby boy, now a manic man. His father had his own door symbolism; one of closing off private affairs and keeping hidden what rattled cages by closing a door. Behind closed doors, the people of his life would live and distances would grow. It had to end.
His white hand, gaunt from lank and age, reached out for the handle, so crystalline, so clean. The glass doorknob on a brass fixture was cool to the touch in the drifty hollows of his childhood home, 202 North Sweat Street. It sat empty now. Desolate. Frozen. In the sheen of light, the entirety of universal expansion all rested behind one blue eye. His hand stayed steady, steady, steady.
He knew he was no idol. He barely was a writer. But writer does sound better when said aloud than "I hear voices as they should be spoken." You never tell anyone you hear voices. Sound was the key! He could hear each imaginary emphasis, each accent, each stressed syllable. It was how he mulled over music with each note. It was his method of empathy with his species. He could hear the tones of their voices and sound, knowing each emotion they felt or hid. Sound also brought with it his darker passions, his anger, his mistrust. He was easily agitated by sound. However, any sound was better than no sound. Silence only brought about a tinny void. That would drive anyone to extremes. Sound could be his strength or it could ruin him.
Were descriptions easier because he could heard as you could see? Yes. He heard in pictures and listened in paintings. The misanthrope could be so lost in his own fantasy and reality at times that he'd loathe the feeling of being torn asunder yet feel fruitless and futile. His hatred of his own race stemmed fully from his envy of everyone else earn to his debt. It didn't matter what others saw either. It was all in his world. If he didn't agree, it was gone in bridges of ebony and ivory.
His hand turns and the door opens. He looks forward for his further stance and enters excesses of colloquial communism. Can words dream?...Does dream dream?
These were the thoughts of the contestant, now a nervous wreck of energy. Insecurity mounted as he cautiously applied for entry to LJ Idol. Just as infectious as information had spread over two decades, so his thoughts raced against him since waking. The misanthrope he was fretted over securing the space required exclusively on demand of the proceeding. Before, he'd considered the neighborhood only slightly more respectable than a picture book, but he'd done worse. Surely LJ Idol couldn't be as intellectually stunting as some of his past dealings in online role playing or fan fiction. As a stick in the mud, he often found himself outmoded, rooted in times past and fearing new things, fads, trends, or even change. Surely the world was shaping with time, as nothing was static. He would simply have to adapt.
A common metaphor was the opening of a door. Perhaps he could walk through the doorway now that it presented itself so clearly. He even had bits of guidance. He'd told his mother his intention on professionalism as she preened her youngest baby boy, now a manic man. His father had his own door symbolism; one of closing off private affairs and keeping hidden what rattled cages by closing a door. Behind closed doors, the people of his life would live and distances would grow. It had to end.
His white hand, gaunt from lank and age, reached out for the handle, so crystalline, so clean. The glass doorknob on a brass fixture was cool to the touch in the drifty hollows of his childhood home, 202 North Sweat Street. It sat empty now. Desolate. Frozen. In the sheen of light, the entirety of universal expansion all rested behind one blue eye. His hand stayed steady, steady, steady.
He knew he was no idol. He barely was a writer. But writer does sound better when said aloud than "I hear voices as they should be spoken." You never tell anyone you hear voices. Sound was the key! He could hear each imaginary emphasis, each accent, each stressed syllable. It was how he mulled over music with each note. It was his method of empathy with his species. He could hear the tones of their voices and sound, knowing each emotion they felt or hid. Sound also brought with it his darker passions, his anger, his mistrust. He was easily agitated by sound. However, any sound was better than no sound. Silence only brought about a tinny void. That would drive anyone to extremes. Sound could be his strength or it could ruin him.
Were descriptions easier because he could heard as you could see? Yes. He heard in pictures and listened in paintings. The misanthrope could be so lost in his own fantasy and reality at times that he'd loathe the feeling of being torn asunder yet feel fruitless and futile. His hatred of his own race stemmed fully from his envy of everyone else earn to his debt. It didn't matter what others saw either. It was all in his world. If he didn't agree, it was gone in bridges of ebony and ivory.
His hand turns and the door opens. He looks forward for his further stance and enters excesses of colloquial communism. Can words dream?...Does dream dream?