future butterfly gonna spend the day higher than high
I really can't seem to get my head around anything at the moment, like a child trying to catch a feather in a light breeze: every time i make a grab for it, the feather nimbly slips away on the wind.
I feel burnt out like a man composed entirely of ashes, weary of taking a single step outside in the case that he is blown away completely
Maybe (definitely) an exaggeration, yes, but ready for a break, or hibernation.
Dug up an idea i started a little while ago. I feel it could be worth building into something bigger, but i'm still not sure. Comments are welcome.
When I wake up, the apartment is cold, empty. She’s gone, but I knew she wouldn’t stay the moment I met her. I lie in bed for a time, listening to the rain as it taps rhythmically against the window, trying to remember. Nothing comes to mind before the evening that I met her. Everything before that night is in a mist, lost, unreachable.
That’s when I realise it.
She’s hacked me.
I had heard about them, but I’d dismissed them as myth. The rogue entities, former employees of big companies. Enticing people that didn’t know any better, jacking into them, deleting some memories, replacing others. You heard stories on your way to work, heard people talk about the serial killer that placed his memories of each new killing into the memory bank of some seemingly random person each kill, erasing every other memory the person had each time. The flashback killer, they called him. You read about the prostitution rings, the huge groups of women working for someone hidden in the shadows, every prostitute’s real memory blanked, their new memory exactly the same as the next. The police arrest three of them for possession, and each one of these prostitutes say they had a puppy called Mr Bobbins, that their father was an alcoholic, and that their best friend Kerry died in a freak train wreck accident at the age of twelve. The police don’t know what to do. The clone camps, as they’re referred to, continue.
You never think it’ll happen to you.
I get out of bed, open the blinds. It doesn’t get much brighter. The rain pelts down from the dark sky, and it shows no signs of stopping. It’s so gloomy I can’t work out what time it is.
I head towards the kitchen, and I try to work it out. Every little detail of the night I met her plays through my mind in slow motion. I see every reaction to what I said from multiple angles, and I pause the memory flow when necessary so nothing moves faster than I want it to.
Like the weather outside, it doesn’t get any clearer.
It feels like a lucid dream you have when you’re awake, a reality within a reality that doesn’t feel like your reality.
The fridge is empty save for a bottle of whiskey I don’t feel like drinking, so I throw on a coat, head out the door, and look over the memories I have in the hopes for some sort of clue.
Saw The Departed last night, and was impressed by it. Made me want to see Infernal Affairs again.
Anyone else up for watching that some time?
---
'somewhere, between the sacred silence and sleep, disorder, disorder, disorder'
I feel burnt out like a man composed entirely of ashes, weary of taking a single step outside in the case that he is blown away completely
Maybe (definitely) an exaggeration, yes, but ready for a break, or hibernation.
Dug up an idea i started a little while ago. I feel it could be worth building into something bigger, but i'm still not sure. Comments are welcome.
When I wake up, the apartment is cold, empty. She’s gone, but I knew she wouldn’t stay the moment I met her. I lie in bed for a time, listening to the rain as it taps rhythmically against the window, trying to remember. Nothing comes to mind before the evening that I met her. Everything before that night is in a mist, lost, unreachable.
That’s when I realise it.
She’s hacked me.
I had heard about them, but I’d dismissed them as myth. The rogue entities, former employees of big companies. Enticing people that didn’t know any better, jacking into them, deleting some memories, replacing others. You heard stories on your way to work, heard people talk about the serial killer that placed his memories of each new killing into the memory bank of some seemingly random person each kill, erasing every other memory the person had each time. The flashback killer, they called him. You read about the prostitution rings, the huge groups of women working for someone hidden in the shadows, every prostitute’s real memory blanked, their new memory exactly the same as the next. The police arrest three of them for possession, and each one of these prostitutes say they had a puppy called Mr Bobbins, that their father was an alcoholic, and that their best friend Kerry died in a freak train wreck accident at the age of twelve. The police don’t know what to do. The clone camps, as they’re referred to, continue.
You never think it’ll happen to you.
I get out of bed, open the blinds. It doesn’t get much brighter. The rain pelts down from the dark sky, and it shows no signs of stopping. It’s so gloomy I can’t work out what time it is.
I head towards the kitchen, and I try to work it out. Every little detail of the night I met her plays through my mind in slow motion. I see every reaction to what I said from multiple angles, and I pause the memory flow when necessary so nothing moves faster than I want it to.
Like the weather outside, it doesn’t get any clearer.
It feels like a lucid dream you have when you’re awake, a reality within a reality that doesn’t feel like your reality.
The fridge is empty save for a bottle of whiskey I don’t feel like drinking, so I throw on a coat, head out the door, and look over the memories I have in the hopes for some sort of clue.
Saw The Departed last night, and was impressed by it. Made me want to see Infernal Affairs again.
Anyone else up for watching that some time?
---
'somewhere, between the sacred silence and sleep, disorder, disorder, disorder'