Записи с темой: and i must scream (список заголовков)


No colour or religion ever stopped a bullet from a gun
С удивлением я обнаружил, что в интернете нет сколько-то глубокого анализа нового «жанра» (и я использую это слово весьма условно) фантастики — ЛитРПГ. Поэтому, хотя я ни в каком разрезе не являюсь литературоведом, я все же хочу осветить это досадное упущение и попытаться сформулировать, что в нем вызывает у меня НЕНАВИСТЬ.

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@темы: храбрости безумных поем мы песню, what really grinds my gears, And I must scream


In my mind, madness

No colour or religion ever stopped a bullet from a gun
There is a world in my mind, clawing to get out, ever on the tip of my tongue, always under my fingernails when I type, eternally printed on the insides of my eyelids.
I can feel it every time I close my eyes.

A world where powers roam clad in disguise of flesh, reality moaning under their impossible weight and sons of mighty make the world tremble in their wake. World where wild magic sweeps across the land, animating things and creatures from inert matter - monsters of nightmares and creatures of such raw beauty you would go insane just by looking at them.
Where a word is the law, deals and obligations, oaths and promises more binding than chains of steel. Where under the buzz of atoms, beneath the quantum foam the malleable keros of the world lies, ready to be shaped by the strong enough will.

My perfect world. I think of thee, and I shall never stop thinking of thee, and everything I say or write or think will ever be but a shade of that which lives in my mind and I will never be able to express.

@темы: reminder, And I must scream


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No colour or religion ever stopped a bullet from a gun
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No colour or religion ever stopped a bullet from a gun
I don't know what to do
I sit at my ocean, as I always do, and I know the telltale signs of brewing storm. It is coming quick, and I can almost smell that salty wind that heralds it.
I know the signs, I can predict the movements of winds and gathering waves.

Should I run?
There are people pulling me away to the sure safety of the firm land. They offer to share their life with me, the hard labor, beset by a helping hand, a rich bounty of the soil watered by sweat of one's brow.
And yet here I sit, under the falling rain, waiting for the waves to claim me, unable to unbind myself from my self. Without the ocean I am merely a man, and I am not sure that this is something I would want to be.

Should I push them away, bite the hand stretched to help me?
I can push them away, and stay here forever, until my god claims me for the abyss of it's depths, storms left far above. The stillness and quiet forever, a watery grave of darkness and silence.
And yet, why is there fear rising from within me, a perfect symmetry of the coming wave?
I cannot live in the ocean and I am not sure that I am willing to let go of the shore.

Should I ride the storm, grabbing the bull of Poseidon by his horns?
I do not know how to do that, the glorious blasphemy of man challenging his god is beyond me. A boy cannot change the course of the ocean, especially no t without a sturdy ship and a crew.
I am no sailor and I do not have a heart for this.

So here I am, sitting ashore, and throwing the stones I know will do nothing against what is coming, locked in thought.
And I don't know what to do.

@темы: And I must scream


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No colour or religion ever stopped a bullet from a gun
Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра


lock Доступ к записи ограничен

No colour or religion ever stopped a bullet from a gun
Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра


Alien invasion

No colour or religion ever stopped a bullet from a gun
There is a thought in my mind that is not mine.
A toxic, alien thing of tentacles and cancerous growths. I can feel its presence, the offshoots and roots it burriows into my head, the reaction of my mind moving to deflect the intruder. The core of my self fighting for survival. Retreating through ignoring its presence, repelling it though argumentation, digesting it through rationalization. Like an infectious wound that you cannot stop yourself from touching it oozes with pus and poison.
I can feel those two struggle like the kaiju in the horror movies, like the Great Old Ones striving to consume each other in the frenzied battle for dominance, gorging themselves on the slimy flesh and acidic blood of the of the enemy.

Is that feeling a sign of insanity? Is it the product of madness? Should one's own mind be that inscrutable and frightening to oneself and filled with alien, squirming things struggling for dominance? I do not know those things.

What I do know is that it is a loosing battle for the both sides. Even the very act of engaging the thought changes both the idea and the thinker immediately and irrevocably. Already the the cancerous growth of the idea are subsumed into the normal functioning of the core, the death throes of the things echo as something almost familiar, rather than disturbing and mind-numbing initial intrusions. The vile ichor of its blood permanently mixed with the lifeblood of my self. Its cancerous tendrils burrowed deep into the very fabric of my brain are now a permanent part of me, causing a cascade of neural reactions reevaluating priorities, changing associations, molding me to itself the same way I have assimilated it into my mindscape.

Perhaps a thing I used to find repulsive will no longer be so. Perhaps next time I pick up a favorite book, I will find it bland and irritating. Maybe it will make me closer to my family, or cause me to loose a friend, influence my work or my hobby, rob me of my sleep or bring me peace of mind - none can tell what this infection will bring down the lines, how it's echoes will spread neuron to neuron, shifting them ever so subtly one by one until the alien and the host are one.

The only thing that is assured - I will cease to exist. I am ceasing to exist as I write this text, and I can feel it as keenly as I would feel a bullet to the head. And from my corpse, watered by the scattered flesh and gore of the slaughter a new person shall rise, another ephemera, waiting for the next battle of the monsters to claim and destroy him only to be born again and again and again, ever in blood, fear and pain.

@темы: And I must scream


Abyss of the mind

No colour or religion ever stopped a bullet from a gun
I feel like a boy, throwing stones in the vast ocean of my subconscious and looking to the horizons far ahead.
I can almost sense the lazy movement of it's waves, the roll of it's mysterious currents bringing changes in my moods, its salty winds telling stories of brewing storms. There is life down in it's depth - slow and alien, lurking in the eternal darkness, shying away from consious thought.
And much like boy is powerless to change the course of the ocean, no matter how many stones he throws, so am I powerless against myself. Merest change in the ocean, a shift in the current, a change in the wind can wash the boy away, dragging him to the infinite darkness of the watery grave or throw ashore a bounty beyond compare, and none may tell what the next change will bring.
So I sit there on the wet sand of the beach, unable to live in the ocean nor able to walk away, ever-bound to the capricious and willful god that also is me.

@темы: And I must scream


Flirting with the Pale Lady

No colour or religion ever stopped a bullet from a gun
"I am late" you think. And you drive just a little bit faster, just a touch more aggressively.
"I am tired, I need sleep". And you take just a couple more pills to help.
"There is work to do", so uncooked meals have to be swallowed on the run, sleep has to wait, risks have to be taken, shortcuts to be made and safety sacrificed.
"I need an edge" you say, grabbing extra strong caffeine and enhancement pills by the handful.
But deep inside, in a place you try to push away when you are laying awake at night, in your thought so secret you would never even admit their existence even to yourself you know why.

@темы: And I must scream