July 23rd; the third day after gaining this thing living in my heart.
Someone has left a thousand copies of the same long note in the Nexus, or maybe it's the same note in a thousand places at once. Does it make that much of a difference? It's in thin, neat handwriting, slanted just slightly.
July 23rd; the third day after gaining this thing living in my heart.
I'm writing this by hand. I could have wished it into existence, I guess, but that wouldn't have seemed right to me- what if my nonexistent ghostwriter took liberties with it or something? Why am I writing all this, I'm not entirely sure... it just seems like a good idea, somehow. Also, I need something to help take up all the spare time I have now. I quit my job yesterday. The redhead in Management I've always had a crush on begged to go home with me and cook and clean and do anything for me for as long as I wanted, but I told her no.
There still aren't any news stories about that amusingly phallic monument in Washington falling over. I guess that means what I can do doesn't extend that far, or maybe it's not a slow enough newsday yet. I guess I could fly there or something myself to check, but I don't know if I trust myself enough. And I might get tired and fall asleep halfway through.
I don't think I'll tell my parents about it. I don't think I can be a "real" hero: I don't have a cape or bright colors, I don't have any high ideals. I just want people to be happy, that's all. No, that's not right. To be what they can be at their best. They're contradictory most of the time, aren't they? Neil Armstrong couldn't have been "happy" after spending days in a tiny space with three other men, but he'd never trade that away for anything else. Einstein's later life was plagued by worry and fear of what his imagination had unleashed, but the rest of us came through all right, and our lives were enhanced forever because of him.
I'm still trying to decide these things about myself. Do I want to be happy? If I do, I want it to be genuine happiness, earned instead of written into existence, brain enscribing into my heart like a pen. I don't know if I could even do that... how much of this is ruled by the logical parts of my brain? How much by the animal? The brain is like a house built on itself a thousand times: at the very bottom of the construction is still what it started from, the rough cave of the reptilian brain, still wet with the blood-hue paint of our ancestors. If you look under it all, we really just have three urges: kill, eat, and fuck. What if that's all there is? What if I'm just looking for something impressive enough to kill to draw in a suitable mate?
That header is wrong now-midnight just passed. I've always been better at writing late at night, I don't know. It's not really any different, not in the city-all the lights are still on, people aren't more asleep now than any other time. I guess I'm more just a noctural person than anything else. On a day I can really indule myself-today was one-I sleep past noon, maybe even to one or two in the afternoon, then stay up well into the night, sometimes all the way to dawn.
If I was going to do something stupid like try to join the Authority, how would I even find them? Would that want me? That Doctor, the man who looks like he could spend all his time puffing on things that man was never meant to learn of, can he do what I can do? They've never really said what they can do, everything we know about them we know just from watching them. What does he do? Does he just do the same thing as me? They call him a shaman, but does he just have an idea-engine ticking away under his breastbone?
What is I realized while in the bathroom that it doesn't really matter. I should be worrying about me, not about other people, no matter what they've done. At least, as long as they're not trying to kill me. God, I hope nobody tries to kill me, I really do. I've kept my head down- would anyone come looking for this sort of thing?
((Feel free to answer any of the questions posed within the narrative, or the one at the end (if you can puzzle out some idea of what he's blathering about). The character will recieve such answers as handwritten annotations to his writing (whether or not the replies are originally written), and will reply to such in a later post, though not to comments on this one. To that end, if you comment, please give a brief description of your character's handwriting style.))
July 23rd; the third day after gaining this thing living in my heart.
I'm writing this by hand. I could have wished it into existence, I guess, but that wouldn't have seemed right to me- what if my nonexistent ghostwriter took liberties with it or something? Why am I writing all this, I'm not entirely sure... it just seems like a good idea, somehow. Also, I need something to help take up all the spare time I have now. I quit my job yesterday. The redhead in Management I've always had a crush on begged to go home with me and cook and clean and do anything for me for as long as I wanted, but I told her no.
There still aren't any news stories about that amusingly phallic monument in Washington falling over. I guess that means what I can do doesn't extend that far, or maybe it's not a slow enough newsday yet. I guess I could fly there or something myself to check, but I don't know if I trust myself enough. And I might get tired and fall asleep halfway through.
I don't think I'll tell my parents about it. I don't think I can be a "real" hero: I don't have a cape or bright colors, I don't have any high ideals. I just want people to be happy, that's all. No, that's not right. To be what they can be at their best. They're contradictory most of the time, aren't they? Neil Armstrong couldn't have been "happy" after spending days in a tiny space with three other men, but he'd never trade that away for anything else. Einstein's later life was plagued by worry and fear of what his imagination had unleashed, but the rest of us came through all right, and our lives were enhanced forever because of him.
I'm still trying to decide these things about myself. Do I want to be happy? If I do, I want it to be genuine happiness, earned instead of written into existence, brain enscribing into my heart like a pen. I don't know if I could even do that... how much of this is ruled by the logical parts of my brain? How much by the animal? The brain is like a house built on itself a thousand times: at the very bottom of the construction is still what it started from, the rough cave of the reptilian brain, still wet with the blood-hue paint of our ancestors. If you look under it all, we really just have three urges: kill, eat, and fuck. What if that's all there is? What if I'm just looking for something impressive enough to kill to draw in a suitable mate?
That header is wrong now-midnight just passed. I've always been better at writing late at night, I don't know. It's not really any different, not in the city-all the lights are still on, people aren't more asleep now than any other time. I guess I'm more just a noctural person than anything else. On a day I can really indule myself-today was one-I sleep past noon, maybe even to one or two in the afternoon, then stay up well into the night, sometimes all the way to dawn.
If I was going to do something stupid like try to join the Authority, how would I even find them? Would that want me? That Doctor, the man who looks like he could spend all his time puffing on things that man was never meant to learn of, can he do what I can do? They've never really said what they can do, everything we know about them we know just from watching them. What does he do? Does he just do the same thing as me? They call him a shaman, but does he just have an idea-engine ticking away under his breastbone?
What is I realized while in the bathroom that it doesn't really matter. I should be worrying about me, not about other people, no matter what they've done. At least, as long as they're not trying to kill me. God, I hope nobody tries to kill me, I really do. I've kept my head down- would anyone come looking for this sort of thing?
((Feel free to answer any of the questions posed within the narrative, or the one at the end (if you can puzzle out some idea of what he's blathering about). The character will recieve such answers as handwritten annotations to his writing (whether or not the replies are originally written), and will reply to such in a later post, though not to comments on this one. To that end, if you comment, please give a brief description of your character's handwriting style.))