(no subject)
Title: Everything Is Numbers
Fandom: original works ftw
Characters: ...numbers and people and random objects in my room, idk.
Rating: If you can actually get through this waffle, I don't care how old you are, you are to be congratulated.
Summary: Everything is numbers. A commentary.
Notes: It's a good thing I didn't type this in Word because the entire thing would be tagged "FRAGMENT, CONSIDER REVISING." >>' I wrote this in a funk, and it's just... it's not really depressing so much as... blah. Just read it if you're curious. ^^;; Also, keep in mind that it got later and later as I wrote this, so it just gets more unintelligible. >>'
10. Ten fingers, ungainly and squat. 10 is our anchor, the base of our number system. Nails that need to be clipped. Except the pinky; the nail on the left pinky had an unfortunate run in with a razor and was done away with. Silence the dissenter; shun anything that is different.
9. Nine colored markers. 9 is the number that always, infuriatingly, adds up to itself, that self-centered bastard. Nine markers that color something to suit someone's liking, and then can never be erased. Of course, one can always use the washing machine, but that takes its toll eventually, too. Markers gripped in chubby fingers, staining scuffed elbows, creating a colorful array of artistic mastery that is beautiful sometimes only in the eyes of the beholder, and occasionally doting parents.
8. Eight layers. 8 is the number of infinity, a never-ending loop-de-loop. 8 layers on a ruffly, white white skirt, sheer enough to show a pair of pink underwear put on in a hurried morning and with a little stain of green marker on the right thigh. Some rips between layers because of a thoughtless sprint up the stairs or a treacherous car door. Many more layers to a person than eight, but sometimes gaps between them where a breeze whispers through to tickle calves, white and sensitive from a long winter. The same tears in clothes and humans.
7. Seven shoes. 7 is the mystical, magical number, the one everyone likes without knowing why. No matter how many pairs in that seven, there is always one left alone. And maybe that shoe is happy to be alone, maybe that shoe's husband is an abusive, alcoholic steel-toed hiking boot made of the skin of a cyborg dinosaur. But more often than not, that shoe feels alone and unworthy. It may even be your favorite beaded navy blue and brown leather sandal that goes oh-so-well with your patterned pink and yellow t-shirt and ruffly layered white skirt and that sprig of white flowers tucked just so behind your right ear, but it is alone all the same.
6. Six post-it notes marking pages in books. 6 is the number of Satan, of evil that does not sleep, and yet is the number at the base of a dozen, our favorite. Six post-its in four books, marking church hymns, passages of poetry and cultural criticism of Frankenstein, and that neat pair of new shoes that there might just be enough dough to buy. Post-its marking little things that we might forget among that plethora of pages, faded photographs in the back of the album. Life is not a story of climaxes, but a story of the little things in between. The seventh wave is the biggest, but in the meantime, there are six in between that are just as good, and going to waste because of their place, withering in the seventh wave's shadow.
5. Five action figures. 5 is the number of standardness, a paradox, a beloved odd number. Five action figures posing on office supplies, stamps and old printer paper and post-its and blank CD-ROMs. Five action figures of people we want to be, meet, hug, shoot, sex up. People that we desperately wish could be real, because they are so pretty or smart or charming or funny or strong. Five people we want to be, but we can't. They have no real problems; they just have to save the world. They don't have to worry about college tuition or dinner on the table or boring staff meetings or cancer or tornadoes or rape. If they die, it is just "Game Over" and you can choose "Load File" and take it from there. If they get smashed flat by a hammer, they comically spring back up with nothing worse than a massive bump on the head and a few missing teeth that reappear moments later. They are invincible and we are just brittle, frail, spun-sugar boys and girls.
4. Four batteries, all triple-A. Four is the Chinese number of death, a beefed up two, the ideal number, a paragon, a mother, a father, and a perfect little boy and girl. Four batteries laying the dregs of my purse, patiently waiting until I need them, or at least clean my purse. They might be full of half-way gone or all used up, but I am too lazy to check. They are to be used in a little, outdated, $10 mp3 player that may or may not only hold sixty songs. (Fifty-eight in my case; one song is seven minutes, twenty-one seconds long.) All silver and sleek with a funny nub on the end denoting the positive side, these batteries are for one time use only. Suck dry once and thrown away to pollute the land with its carcass. After their initial use to power a CD player or an electronic toothbrush or a child's superhero figurine or be the rebound girl or the obligatory date to prom or the kid with the giant TV and cool house, they are no good. People get bored.
3. Three computers. 3 is the happy number, the number protagonists function in. Computers are the world's miracle and the world's curse, powered by electricity (alternating current, not direct current; power outlets, not batteries) and limited only by the human mind, as of yet. The machine that opens up the world to our fingertips, but keeps us jaded, trapped in our office chair.Cyberspace is immense, but even the Internet has its walls, and in between you and those walls there is not a living, breathing soul in sight. Cyberspace is a lonely place where you adventure in solitude. Three keeps balance, a main character and his foils. The id, the ego, and the super-ego, all coming into play. The malleability of the human when torn between two desirable paths.
2. Two hair ties. Two is the number that is never alone, the envied pair. A person that accepts and loves you unconditionally is difficult to find, a soul mate even more so. But hope brings confidence, and confidence is the sexiest thing you can wear. Confidence will lead you awry, certainly, but once grounded, tied firmly down, lashed in place it is difficult to shake. Tied away in a doubled bun, a mane of curly hair resides, waiting for time alone at the TV or computer or doing homework or the blanket of the night to shake and tumble and leap and somersault free into a frizzy mane that receives no love from today's culture. Hiding what one is so that they are more acceptable, and they are never alone, allowing them maybe even to find someone who loves them, however conditional it is.
1. One self. One is the loneliest number, and because of that the strongest. One is a tree in the middle of a barren field, one is a widow, one is a cottage on a sea-weathered cliff, one is the last cookie in the jar, one is the last man standing. And one should be respected, for in the end, one dies with only itself as company, one self and one liver and two legs and ten fingers and two lungs and two ossicles and one urethra and God knows how many teeth. And sometimes one doesn't even have all that. One is only; why else would they have the same first two letter? One self looks back at you from the mirror, maybe as a chubby toddler with pigtails tied in two pink, sparkly hair ties and Oshkosh on, maybe as a pimply teenager dressed in Hot Topic's finest, maybe as a parent starting to get a wrinkle or two and a gray hair, maybe as an oldster without many teeth or much hair left and maybe not much left at all, or maybe all of these, or none of these, but regardless, the only person that can look straight back at you from the mirror with accusing eyes is you, and only you can let others tell you that your reflection needs fixing. So fuck 'em up their asses. Only one can see one self in the mirror at a head-on angle, and all other views are from an angle that really doesn't matter in the end. One alone decides what one can do. One is freedom.
~Amunet 8D
Fandom: original works ftw
Characters: ...numbers and people and random objects in my room, idk.
Rating: If you can actually get through this waffle, I don't care how old you are, you are to be congratulated.
Summary: Everything is numbers. A commentary.
Notes: It's a good thing I didn't type this in Word because the entire thing would be tagged "FRAGMENT, CONSIDER REVISING." >>' I wrote this in a funk, and it's just... it's not really depressing so much as... blah. Just read it if you're curious. ^^;; Also, keep in mind that it got later and later as I wrote this, so it just gets more unintelligible. >>'
10. Ten fingers, ungainly and squat. 10 is our anchor, the base of our number system. Nails that need to be clipped. Except the pinky; the nail on the left pinky had an unfortunate run in with a razor and was done away with. Silence the dissenter; shun anything that is different.
9. Nine colored markers. 9 is the number that always, infuriatingly, adds up to itself, that self-centered bastard. Nine markers that color something to suit someone's liking, and then can never be erased. Of course, one can always use the washing machine, but that takes its toll eventually, too. Markers gripped in chubby fingers, staining scuffed elbows, creating a colorful array of artistic mastery that is beautiful sometimes only in the eyes of the beholder, and occasionally doting parents.
8. Eight layers. 8 is the number of infinity, a never-ending loop-de-loop. 8 layers on a ruffly, white white skirt, sheer enough to show a pair of pink underwear put on in a hurried morning and with a little stain of green marker on the right thigh. Some rips between layers because of a thoughtless sprint up the stairs or a treacherous car door. Many more layers to a person than eight, but sometimes gaps between them where a breeze whispers through to tickle calves, white and sensitive from a long winter. The same tears in clothes and humans.
7. Seven shoes. 7 is the mystical, magical number, the one everyone likes without knowing why. No matter how many pairs in that seven, there is always one left alone. And maybe that shoe is happy to be alone, maybe that shoe's husband is an abusive, alcoholic steel-toed hiking boot made of the skin of a cyborg dinosaur. But more often than not, that shoe feels alone and unworthy. It may even be your favorite beaded navy blue and brown leather sandal that goes oh-so-well with your patterned pink and yellow t-shirt and ruffly layered white skirt and that sprig of white flowers tucked just so behind your right ear, but it is alone all the same.
6. Six post-it notes marking pages in books. 6 is the number of Satan, of evil that does not sleep, and yet is the number at the base of a dozen, our favorite. Six post-its in four books, marking church hymns, passages of poetry and cultural criticism of Frankenstein, and that neat pair of new shoes that there might just be enough dough to buy. Post-its marking little things that we might forget among that plethora of pages, faded photographs in the back of the album. Life is not a story of climaxes, but a story of the little things in between. The seventh wave is the biggest, but in the meantime, there are six in between that are just as good, and going to waste because of their place, withering in the seventh wave's shadow.
5. Five action figures. 5 is the number of standardness, a paradox, a beloved odd number. Five action figures posing on office supplies, stamps and old printer paper and post-its and blank CD-ROMs. Five action figures of people we want to be, meet, hug, shoot, sex up. People that we desperately wish could be real, because they are so pretty or smart or charming or funny or strong. Five people we want to be, but we can't. They have no real problems; they just have to save the world. They don't have to worry about college tuition or dinner on the table or boring staff meetings or cancer or tornadoes or rape. If they die, it is just "Game Over" and you can choose "Load File" and take it from there. If they get smashed flat by a hammer, they comically spring back up with nothing worse than a massive bump on the head and a few missing teeth that reappear moments later. They are invincible and we are just brittle, frail, spun-sugar boys and girls.
4. Four batteries, all triple-A. Four is the Chinese number of death, a beefed up two, the ideal number, a paragon, a mother, a father, and a perfect little boy and girl. Four batteries laying the dregs of my purse, patiently waiting until I need them, or at least clean my purse. They might be full of half-way gone or all used up, but I am too lazy to check. They are to be used in a little, outdated, $10 mp3 player that may or may not only hold sixty songs. (Fifty-eight in my case; one song is seven minutes, twenty-one seconds long.) All silver and sleek with a funny nub on the end denoting the positive side, these batteries are for one time use only. Suck dry once and thrown away to pollute the land with its carcass. After their initial use to power a CD player or an electronic toothbrush or a child's superhero figurine or be the rebound girl or the obligatory date to prom or the kid with the giant TV and cool house, they are no good. People get bored.
3. Three computers. 3 is the happy number, the number protagonists function in. Computers are the world's miracle and the world's curse, powered by electricity (alternating current, not direct current; power outlets, not batteries) and limited only by the human mind, as of yet. The machine that opens up the world to our fingertips, but keeps us jaded, trapped in our office chair.Cyberspace is immense, but even the Internet has its walls, and in between you and those walls there is not a living, breathing soul in sight. Cyberspace is a lonely place where you adventure in solitude. Three keeps balance, a main character and his foils. The id, the ego, and the super-ego, all coming into play. The malleability of the human when torn between two desirable paths.
2. Two hair ties. Two is the number that is never alone, the envied pair. A person that accepts and loves you unconditionally is difficult to find, a soul mate even more so. But hope brings confidence, and confidence is the sexiest thing you can wear. Confidence will lead you awry, certainly, but once grounded, tied firmly down, lashed in place it is difficult to shake. Tied away in a doubled bun, a mane of curly hair resides, waiting for time alone at the TV or computer or doing homework or the blanket of the night to shake and tumble and leap and somersault free into a frizzy mane that receives no love from today's culture. Hiding what one is so that they are more acceptable, and they are never alone, allowing them maybe even to find someone who loves them, however conditional it is.
1. One self. One is the loneliest number, and because of that the strongest. One is a tree in the middle of a barren field, one is a widow, one is a cottage on a sea-weathered cliff, one is the last cookie in the jar, one is the last man standing. And one should be respected, for in the end, one dies with only itself as company, one self and one liver and two legs and ten fingers and two lungs and two ossicles and one urethra and God knows how many teeth. And sometimes one doesn't even have all that. One is only; why else would they have the same first two letter? One self looks back at you from the mirror, maybe as a chubby toddler with pigtails tied in two pink, sparkly hair ties and Oshkosh on, maybe as a pimply teenager dressed in Hot Topic's finest, maybe as a parent starting to get a wrinkle or two and a gray hair, maybe as an oldster without many teeth or much hair left and maybe not much left at all, or maybe all of these, or none of these, but regardless, the only person that can look straight back at you from the mirror with accusing eyes is you, and only you can let others tell you that your reflection needs fixing. So fuck 'em up their asses. Only one can see one self in the mirror at a head-on angle, and all other views are from an angle that really doesn't matter in the end. One alone decides what one can do. One is freedom.
~Amunet 8D