Paranoia 9
I think that in order to get me to actually FINISH this story, I should post more of it. I do have up to chapter 13 written.
So, Chapter 9
My classroom is in a building that is just classrooms, a large structure of windows, desks and chairs, white boards and aisles. Hallways of classrooms, for the march of students seeking to fill their brains with facts and figures, with answers to questions and the knowing looking and thoughts as they begin to realize what is written between the lines, unspoken in words and whispered on hushed intakes of breath. As the professor, an instructor in all his earned knowledge, repeats yet another already learned point, I gaze around from the back, higher than the rest and thus all seeing. My eye travels down to the faces, watching their reactions and sorting the thinkers from the poor pathetic sheep. The sheep are sheep, lost souls and dull minds, with maybe a spark of some clipped wings of genius, which just might be able to be fanned back into life.
But the others, who hardly dare to think, to believe that they truly are thinking such ideas, and are determined to not indulge in them for much longer for surely their minds and soul will scream into insanity, to those pretty padded walls that still long to have me in their hands, to hold and keep safe. I know the feeling well, and as they regain something of their stability, I summon.
It bursts onto the screen, the white board, filling those ugly empty spaces on the walls and in their brains.
“This is a pirated signal, reporting the unedited facts the government doesn't want you to know. We believe that the public and people have the right to know, like the true facts surrounding the arrest of...” I tune the rest out, since I more or less wrote the piece, offered them the information needed and created the program, sneaking it past the weak walls of the campus computer. I timed it well, as it blared on the speakers waking and fanning those sparks of flame and thought, the spirit of intellect and nature, the sense of right and wrong. The pirate anchorwoman states the facts, clear and concise, as images flipped from the projector, bouncing off the screen and burning into their memories. There is a murmur of voices, sweeping through the room, the building, the schools, rippling in harmony as classes suddenly stop and instructors stand baffled at the unlikely interruption. By statistics and my own calculations, this moment is the time when the most students are in class, whether paying the most attention or not. While I did not make it a primary function, I gave my program instructions that if it became possible to infiltrate other school systems, to do so. Much easier than going in each system and installing the program. I am lazy and this leads to less back doors to trace. I did, however, plant the program in a few other systems, so that it could not be tracked to my area.
I did watch, and was pleased to see the broadcasting program spread to other neighbourhood systems, some private servers put on hold under the stress of demand. My program is not a virus, put that from your mind, for it does not seek infection, only function. If a computer crashes, it is not my program's fault that the computer was not adequate for its function. No, it's purpose is the broadcast, now staring at me as the report of lies marches by, ending with the image of eyes.
Eyes, glaring and yelling, demanding and pleading. The eyes that seek out and speak without words, communicating beyond space and time, beyond body to strike and pierce the soul. Eyes, eyes, haunting eyes, expressing emotional, raw and wild eyes, catching and reflecting, the portrait and the mirror, so practical, physical and spiritual. And always watching.
Eyes now take it in and it finishes, the program ending and deleting most of itself. Why waste a good thing? Copies beyond copies and clones, and the false emptiness descends, filling the silence as the observers, the students replay in shock and wonder. The classroom is a particular place. It is a neutral place of theory. Outside the classroom, lessons become applied and practical. Outside, this is dangerous, inside the classroom, this is theory. And the lesson replays, and replays, and replays in many memories, not soon to be forgotten.
I see a little fuel added to the small spark of flame.
I like a good flame, flickering brightly like the strong soul of life, small in its birth, but fearsome in its potential. Humans are like fire, a small candle that under the right circumstances can become a roaring inferno, consuming and raging and leaving one homeless. A good flame brings me comfort, knowing that there is always some sort of hope in life. A good flame is life, and when it is done, I can look at the shape that remains, pick up the pieces and treasure them in my heart. Assuming that I have one.
Ever wonder what people see when you walk past them? Ever wonder what they think about you, or whether you've made any sort of impact in their life? Ever wonder what it must be like to be god? Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, and the rest of the time I don't care with the desperate energy of denial. There is only one now; the river in Egypt is now a canal, ever so carefully controlled water running down cement walls into pipes and out into fields. How our ancestors would be appalled!
These events are thrilling! For once in a very long time, I feel like reaching into the world and acting, to touch, destroy and create. I feel the secret pride for my work. Who else is there that can accomplish this? Ah, but there is the danger. With this thought, this feeling and action, the world becomes a complicated mess.
Feelings. The nature of humans is to feel too much, to experience too much. With this thundering in my heart, this lightening in my blood, filling my veins and ears, my love and fears are right there. Right there, standing just inside the door, reaching out to take hold of me and carry me away. A glance over my shoulder; how is it that they are able to hide so quickly and quietly, in this barren place?
I break character, to keep looking, to catch them before they reach me, the old game of tag. This is what it does, emotions. This is the mistake in becoming too involved, too emotional, too human. I must make repairs to this state, find my calm, my memory within dream. I will not let this human emotion to rattle and shatter my being. If I do not, there will be more to gather me up with chains and collars. So, I'll take the time on the tracks, metal rails and wires, to distract myself of humanity. While it does cause me anxiety, it does its job and I feel more refreshed. A small smile, I breath in the frosty air and imagine clean snow draped on the dull dead ground, the faded leaves and slippery black roads. It is chalk, painting the world into hibernation to rebirth. It would be good to curl up in blankets on a bed near the window, a good book and warm drink close to hand and cocoon in safe soft silence. A flickering candle on the table, a small box of matches nearby. It glows.
A jolt and I am brought back to the dull wires and tracks of the public transport, felled from the sky as clouds being the seasonal march across the sun. The ride is now wearisome, the windows are now more walls. I start my walk back to the apartment, stopping every once in a while to watch others hurry past. I look for something that might not be seen, which might not be there, and perhaps I do not possess.
So, Chapter 9
My classroom is in a building that is just classrooms, a large structure of windows, desks and chairs, white boards and aisles. Hallways of classrooms, for the march of students seeking to fill their brains with facts and figures, with answers to questions and the knowing looking and thoughts as they begin to realize what is written between the lines, unspoken in words and whispered on hushed intakes of breath. As the professor, an instructor in all his earned knowledge, repeats yet another already learned point, I gaze around from the back, higher than the rest and thus all seeing. My eye travels down to the faces, watching their reactions and sorting the thinkers from the poor pathetic sheep. The sheep are sheep, lost souls and dull minds, with maybe a spark of some clipped wings of genius, which just might be able to be fanned back into life.
But the others, who hardly dare to think, to believe that they truly are thinking such ideas, and are determined to not indulge in them for much longer for surely their minds and soul will scream into insanity, to those pretty padded walls that still long to have me in their hands, to hold and keep safe. I know the feeling well, and as they regain something of their stability, I summon.
It bursts onto the screen, the white board, filling those ugly empty spaces on the walls and in their brains.
“This is a pirated signal, reporting the unedited facts the government doesn't want you to know. We believe that the public and people have the right to know, like the true facts surrounding the arrest of...” I tune the rest out, since I more or less wrote the piece, offered them the information needed and created the program, sneaking it past the weak walls of the campus computer. I timed it well, as it blared on the speakers waking and fanning those sparks of flame and thought, the spirit of intellect and nature, the sense of right and wrong. The pirate anchorwoman states the facts, clear and concise, as images flipped from the projector, bouncing off the screen and burning into their memories. There is a murmur of voices, sweeping through the room, the building, the schools, rippling in harmony as classes suddenly stop and instructors stand baffled at the unlikely interruption. By statistics and my own calculations, this moment is the time when the most students are in class, whether paying the most attention or not. While I did not make it a primary function, I gave my program instructions that if it became possible to infiltrate other school systems, to do so. Much easier than going in each system and installing the program. I am lazy and this leads to less back doors to trace. I did, however, plant the program in a few other systems, so that it could not be tracked to my area.
I did watch, and was pleased to see the broadcasting program spread to other neighbourhood systems, some private servers put on hold under the stress of demand. My program is not a virus, put that from your mind, for it does not seek infection, only function. If a computer crashes, it is not my program's fault that the computer was not adequate for its function. No, it's purpose is the broadcast, now staring at me as the report of lies marches by, ending with the image of eyes.
Eyes, glaring and yelling, demanding and pleading. The eyes that seek out and speak without words, communicating beyond space and time, beyond body to strike and pierce the soul. Eyes, eyes, haunting eyes, expressing emotional, raw and wild eyes, catching and reflecting, the portrait and the mirror, so practical, physical and spiritual. And always watching.
Eyes now take it in and it finishes, the program ending and deleting most of itself. Why waste a good thing? Copies beyond copies and clones, and the false emptiness descends, filling the silence as the observers, the students replay in shock and wonder. The classroom is a particular place. It is a neutral place of theory. Outside the classroom, lessons become applied and practical. Outside, this is dangerous, inside the classroom, this is theory. And the lesson replays, and replays, and replays in many memories, not soon to be forgotten.
I see a little fuel added to the small spark of flame.
I like a good flame, flickering brightly like the strong soul of life, small in its birth, but fearsome in its potential. Humans are like fire, a small candle that under the right circumstances can become a roaring inferno, consuming and raging and leaving one homeless. A good flame brings me comfort, knowing that there is always some sort of hope in life. A good flame is life, and when it is done, I can look at the shape that remains, pick up the pieces and treasure them in my heart. Assuming that I have one.
Ever wonder what people see when you walk past them? Ever wonder what they think about you, or whether you've made any sort of impact in their life? Ever wonder what it must be like to be god? Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't, and the rest of the time I don't care with the desperate energy of denial. There is only one now; the river in Egypt is now a canal, ever so carefully controlled water running down cement walls into pipes and out into fields. How our ancestors would be appalled!
These events are thrilling! For once in a very long time, I feel like reaching into the world and acting, to touch, destroy and create. I feel the secret pride for my work. Who else is there that can accomplish this? Ah, but there is the danger. With this thought, this feeling and action, the world becomes a complicated mess.
Feelings. The nature of humans is to feel too much, to experience too much. With this thundering in my heart, this lightening in my blood, filling my veins and ears, my love and fears are right there. Right there, standing just inside the door, reaching out to take hold of me and carry me away. A glance over my shoulder; how is it that they are able to hide so quickly and quietly, in this barren place?
I break character, to keep looking, to catch them before they reach me, the old game of tag. This is what it does, emotions. This is the mistake in becoming too involved, too emotional, too human. I must make repairs to this state, find my calm, my memory within dream. I will not let this human emotion to rattle and shatter my being. If I do not, there will be more to gather me up with chains and collars. So, I'll take the time on the tracks, metal rails and wires, to distract myself of humanity. While it does cause me anxiety, it does its job and I feel more refreshed. A small smile, I breath in the frosty air and imagine clean snow draped on the dull dead ground, the faded leaves and slippery black roads. It is chalk, painting the world into hibernation to rebirth. It would be good to curl up in blankets on a bed near the window, a good book and warm drink close to hand and cocoon in safe soft silence. A flickering candle on the table, a small box of matches nearby. It glows.
A jolt and I am brought back to the dull wires and tracks of the public transport, felled from the sky as clouds being the seasonal march across the sun. The ride is now wearisome, the windows are now more walls. I start my walk back to the apartment, stopping every once in a while to watch others hurry past. I look for something that might not be seen, which might not be there, and perhaps I do not possess.