Truthsayers
Ahh... what a great feeling it is to return to this place. Time and negligence has rendered it barren and cold, but even in these wicked times, a master is not denied a walk in his dying domains.
As I said to the man who goes by no name, and yet exists in dozens: "The soul's journey is indeed one, which we cannot foresee or tame; the soul must walk its own path and sing in tongues, new to its master's ear."
Whatever right.
I shan't bore you to death with thoughts too sensitive to be spoken clearly, for there is in fact no clear way to speak of them anyway - I suppose my heathen craving for attention - and in the end conversion - is reason enough.
These words mean nothing - nor does the person writing them, nor the person reading them.
And yet they do - so much.
and so little.
And so at last, when the colours of life have been spilled on the wasteland carpet of grey below, we must consider the single tear: the currency of what could have been, the price of failed dreams
And the only thing worth living for...
Tears and artificial laughter - and of course, the utter belief in truth
bimbo - limbo
Yes Yes.
This is becoming more and more of a journal of hazed evenings, I know, and I apologize. I guess the pressure from the four unknowns reading this horseshit is too much for me to handle. If that were the case, it'd be sad anyway... --
But I've not returned from weeks of travel just to talk about the "talking about", and so I'll cut to the chase. Damn, the English language is literally stuffed with clichés. So much so that even the word "cliché" is becoming useless. --
- Right, so it's about ten am, and I'm feeling rather low. Before me towers a grand glass of juice, of which I'm frequently taking sips, and a black pencil of disciplin, lying accusingly and barely visibly on the table. There is no real headache worth mentioning and my stomach's just fine. Yet I cannot stop myself from contemplating the choices of the past evening.
----
I grab the deck of cards on the shelf above me, only to put it back down on my lovely Erling illustrated book, as visions slowly return to me.
---
There was this dog, a beautiful dog, with whom I bonded. I transcended beyond mere definitions of species and gender, beyond life or death, just to exist... for once. I believe the dog/dogline bore the name "Niko" (or at least some kind of slavic name), it being a rather small, incredibly smooth furred brownwhite Spaniel of some sort, the name clashed terribly with the Self. I could feel how my lovely little Niko trembled before my growing intoxication. I could feel him literally hate what I had become, a grotesque monster of well-being, a giant caricature of failed superficiality.
- Burp.
---
Of course, Niko was not the only slav at the party, if I put it like that, and he was the far less prominent one. This other nameless slav stirred up some mighty shit. If I was the caricature, then he was the fucking disaster. Between shouting Scottish curses and harrassing people for their heritage, he actually managed to party as well. Though I cannot for my life consider him a bad person. Lost, perhaps. Confused. But not bad... What does that even mean, "bad". A while back I made an attempt of clarifying the concept of evil, and while it needs more work, I think it will show you the general thoughtlines within my Cognium: "Evil is our way of describing a negative (i.e causing mental or physical pain) social or moral deviation , which we ourselves cannot fathom" From this, it is obvious that the concept of evil varies greatly among different people, but even so within the single person. Evil is also very often used as a means or a licence to do harm (act in vengeance), which makes us incredibly more biased when assessing someone's evility.
---
Which brings me to hate. I think my hate has never been as strong as in this very moment.
---
I also think that I'm very much lying right now, for I too have been stung with the sword of heaven's betrayal, and this right here is just an earthly sparring gone out of hand. Yet my hate is real.
---
I wandered from the distant town, through the icy plains, to my beloved home in Rûd.
--
Why can't I accept things. Distractions distract me, as visions pollute me.,
excerpt from a toked diary
Orange.
The flickering lights are always orange. As are the trees in the sky, shining brightly over the Ogglish castles. Yet no one abides to the rule of the orange master, lest they themselves choose thusly.
Marabou-Orange.
Msn-Orange.
Two powerful beings within their own centra, but release them upon one another, and one shall experience the death of time. For who is to say that Marabou-Orange isn’t the tastiest and most lustful of mistresses, constantly making its humble servants go “mmmmmmmmmm”, afterwhich they chant the name of their Goddess of Chocolate.
wat
