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Today is the 1st of December but it does not feel like it. Lonely double "study periods" spent staring at a screen, sighing and laughing at my attempts to extend my programming knowledge. Python made it clear that most of my attempts were in vain and even debugging kept me confused. Next 'twas the time of my 200 words for French to be completed. It didn't take long but I know that I have made mistakes by just looking at it. Whenever I'm doing anything there's always a decision that I have ask myself. Should I risk it or not?
Well.. this unconventional plural of the noun "octopus" in order to express more than one of the eight armed creature is, it seems, a crucial part of my life.
Oh, the quirks, they speak to me like cats speak to each other, not inside my head, but out loud. Democracy is wasted on humans when there is always a way of cheating and reverting back to the animals that we once were on a par with. Tell me that we are not selfish and that generations of classes mean nothing to us and I will not believe you.
Guess how old my niece is today. This many, *holds up one finger*. :D She's the cutest thing since slice bread made into those beautiful sandwiches that you just stare at with that concerning drip from your mouth and a sparkle in your right eye. I feel I'm digressing. The balloons, they attempted not to touch the ground on their way to the place they came, perhaps understating their age. And she sits on the floor staring at the presents, showing her infantile state in the childish manner with which she played. Is it time to sleep or greet more?
You know when you have to write 100 words but you find yourself having a lack of creativity? Well, today is that day. I know that I must write for this day otherwise I'll get too far behind to complete the batch this month but honestly, I really do not feel like it. Today there was finally hot water again although I'm sure entirely sure how long it'll last for or whether it will continue to work for me to be warm. The warmth is returning in my life as the snow begins to melt. How is it we survive?
Should we all have a hero in our lives, someone who we can just hear words about and feel a sense of pride without needing the end of the sentence? Sure, it's possible to live never feeling proud but that is not the way that I want it to be. Look to the crowd on your left and tell me what you see. People, each one different, none of them know each other and yet each one of them is a hero to someone somewhere. No, not heroin, we're not discussing drugs, we're talking about ordinary human beings. Or maybe...
Look onto those hills and groan. Maybe they were once yours but no longer can you seize the land in your fist. It is all for the progression of the human race towards an ultimate ending that your powers have been restricted. In other words, you may be as old as this book but whilst this book continues to be relevant, the powers of which it talks no longer exist.
"Oh but they'll continue to worship you."
"I guess that's kind of a plus."
"Umm... if you insist. Some people will think those who worship you are crazy. Those atheists."
Computing. I never thought I'd enjoy something that finishes with me getting a load of Microsoft merchandise (not computers or anything *lesigh*). A fun day of genuinely interesting lectures and demos that make even teachers want to dance. The quiz was frustrating to say the least and quite clearly hadn't been thought through in a logical way. They should have assumed that all the schools would try to buzz before the question had even appeared and prepared for that event. The question on my mind -- in what world does a school win £1,000 for pressing a button several times?
One hundred words, oh only one hundred words. Should it be this difficult to write just a hundred words? Varying in letters, surely I could type just a hundred one letter long words and I'd be done for the day, but that would be boring. Alternatively, I could just write nothing and press "PREVIEW", which, again is potentially not the best solution to this problem of mine. Alas, it seems that I will just have to write about a hundred words in an elaborative manner such that I will take up a total of a hundred words just writing. Good.
Isn't it cruel to hang a man because a random chosen observer cannot guess the correct letters to form a word? I don't think so, hence I decided that I should do the same. Perhaps no wooden frame but instead a tree, tie a noose and help the poor man to feel the brush of his skin against the fibres of the rope. Caress them, it will not be long until they cut into skin and suffocate you. Eleven men stand with eleven blank wooden panels before me. My first guess, "E". No luck. This is a rotten game indeed.
Considering the different situations before a car crash.
But is this car crash one with literal qualities and the pain that naturally follows impact or is it a psychological hit to bring you to your knees?
Furious, foot on the break, perform that emergency stop. Stare forward into your destiny. That bright light continues closer.
That cannot be just another story for just another day. This death of yours, it will never leave us, but indeed it never did come and you still breathe in my ear -- heavy sighs that come with exhaustion. Close to it but not this time.
I appreciate your love. But now has come the time when my TCP begins to fail and the missing packets are not replaced or resent. My brain becomes confused because no longer can anything communicate with it, but it still expects more data to come. Woe, mercy on my soul, it is just static in this unsecure connection that follows. The viruses leech on me, my heart, I am not longer a client in this client-server model and my end has ceased to exist as part of this end-to-end principle. I'm not a machine, but why not?
I must apologise.
It's not that I don't sometimes think of it that way, it's that I can never appreciate what I really feel or what I really have. Much like the snow, it's there but to realise its temporariness, I must sit and watch as it fades, much like your silhouette did that day.
I must forget.
There is nothing that I can do about it. For now you're gone, you have left me bereft and henceforth I will not feel but become just a stone, unwilling to heal and pitiful in my character. This is how you've left me.
This is too my ineptitude; of course I cannot act the way that I truly desire.
I turn to that ladder you'd made, and start my ascent. Wherever this path goes, I know it is to a place better than this, for these things can only improve.
Yet, I clutch nothing and I balance seemingly nowhere -- this is no vertigo but certainly my acrophobia reveals itself as my eyes try to gaze anywhere but the air on which I bounce. Tunnels are surrounding and a speech bubble attempts to render itself. Some things scare, but through all this...
On avait souffert.
We had suffered until today, when rising up above the world became but elementary. From this place, high above the ants, I see a smile that lights the face. It's clear to me that this is why I should not frown and why one should but cheer. There's no need for this sorrow that before had possessed me, for now I know there indeed is always a morrow. No whispering yet, I speak quite clearly. But this is never to be said but to be considered only. Beyond that smile there is a planet. Celle-là.
Shall we rule the world with et cetera-isms?
No, nevertheless, we will find that elusive way to seize what is rightfully ourself until you learn that what you did that day is wrong. We will never stop searching until you are dead, all potency removed, and sludged on the floor like a slug. They are always coming for you and can only closer.
A game of hot or cold is needed to exemplify this situation. Tell me le faux des mots and we will take action on your conscience because reverse psychology is not a game that we play.
Yesterday I was told that llamas can fly. Don't get me wrong, I'm not (medically) classed as insane, but I agree nevertheless. It depends what you think when you read the word "fly" -- me, I think of eleven yellow cubes floating in the sea; it has to be eleven otherwise the illusion of flying is lost. Anyway, llamas don't need to be able to fly, but they like to have the choice so they usually eat guardian angels and turn into guardian angels themselves. Sure, it's a burden on their life of grazing grass, but someone has to do it.
If this is some sort of teenage film then for once I don't want it to stop. That feeling when you see something, and it hits you just right -- you can't help but smile, grin. Did someone see? What must they think? They too are smiling and my expression seems not extraordinary or unlikely in this cloud.
Oh! Damn this heart and its pulls towards that moon which I try to resist not. This fault of mine is not disproven and never will it be. For I, together with my foibles, learn to live with this pain till the morrow.
Is it the cutting of the mustard that I fear? I expect that I'll retreat beyond the border of my own country and not dare to enter into an unknown land where I am not welcome. She pulls the curtain and this time allows me to sing that song that so sweetly once met my ears with piercing audacity. No more will I be persuaded to think that it is not I that can perform and from now on I will continue to chant with impressions of that ghost that haunts my room each night. Chilled to the bone, here.
After splitting open his head, those doctors take out their magnifying glasses to investigate what really makes him tick. Their neutral expressions become those of horror as they discover the magnitude of the problem.
"Worse than one would have expected," one said.
This sentiment becomes contagious until the room buzzes with the noise of their simple mouths "nattering" of nothing important. These doctors do not know why they are performing this harmful operation nor why they live. However, what they do know is that their insanity is gradually consuming their insanity.
Oh those doctors, when will they learn to live?
As Christmas approaches my mind seems not to be on the joy of the festive period but rather the looming maths exams. There are less than three weeks until I'll be sitting in the main hall thinking over the second question before I have considered the first. Of course, I can do the questions perfectly but there happens a mistake every now and again that sees my percentage drop exponentially and foresees my mouth quiver with fear as I see those pitiful results. Like the thinnest AAA batteries with little capacity but past potential to be fully-charged. Dream on.
Write me a poem for a while so that I can read the words that you so fluently write in order to have judged your worth. I swear if it sounds the slightest cliché then this saliva of mine will not stay away from that picture of yours lain smashed on the dirt. Listen to me, I am king for this journey so it must that you obey these commands that fill the dread balloon in your throat. Silly wench; watch my face else I will soon behead you like that dragon I had recently slain. The king is me.
Excuse my poor excuse for words but I should not let another day slip from my fingertips in these sands of yesterday. This font invites me so dearly to explore serifs and indeed I will -- for to detract those those live their lives always "sans" this and "sans" that. Permit me to express my opinion the way in which I deem fitting for this situation. The abstraction of this abstraction has left nothing clear and elephants continue to eat their own tails with gusto. These are infinite boundaries shaded each with the appearance of the Mandelbrot Set. See page 103.
How much would you sell your thoughts for?
And for what quantity of the finest silver are you prepared to lend me your intellect? I have searched the market of souls on the Inter-web and have come to the conclusion that yours would be the best in order to keep me living for the extra years that I desire.
The blood is dripping -- lunatic. This is the one that is to destroy you; a collector with that hunger for more. Your qualities will not enter his body for he is immune to sense. Perfect, another one to feed on.
The shocking reality of the matter, that I thought I had already written the truth for these crows to read. Yet you still lie to me, in denial of the notable clouds as they loom above your head. Let them gather and empower; let them bolt you down and free your mind to accept itself beyond reasonable reason. It's true.
Give up and fall to the ground, this Christmastime you stop crying over your pitiful life and blame yourself to death. Open the last door on your advent calender and accept your fate. Sweetheart, die for me.
Resist the urge to speak of Christmas on this day. No, I did not spend my Christmas Day on 100 words, but it would have been worth more if I had. The chocolate is setting in and I feel like a big marshmallow but the hand goes back, grabs another, unwraps, and stuffs it in my mouth.
Is momentary pleasure worth the guilt?
Ahh well, whilst I have Scorch with me I don't care.
Flying fish, at this time of the year? Oh yes, I do think so.
Random thoughts but Christmas was not that bad. What follows may be.
This Boxing Day we are having Christmas dinner. During the next week I will continue to do more maths past papers until there are no more Edexcel ones to be completed and I will have to search other exam boards for perhaps more interesting questions.
Statistics situations never fail to interest me thus I have high expectations for this January 2011 paper. I pray of you Edexcel, amaze me. One thing I really hope is that I have time to effectively redo most of the paper after I have finished. That way, I can go back and ensure full marks.
I swear these days are passing me by. After that train leaves, taking true love, I'll bury my head in the sand and regret decisions. Kidnap me and drag me to the highest altitude where I struggle breathing the slightest air. Claw the face of betrayal with giggling fits: do it, Miss Maniac. Danger seems my sustenance and you're giving it to me in the purest form.
Blood drips and melts the snow that surrounds the corpse. Take me to a hospital. Please let me board that train that lead you to this conclusion. Join us in deathly matrimony forever.
If you bloom in winter, the present's conditions are perfect for perfection, that is you, la parfait. Your control of mystery shakes the leaves of my mind, attracting the willows in a strong orbit. Vary those charms is what seems pleases you daily. I laugh nonetheless, unaffected by these needless alternations. If we spoke only in Boolean variables, you would always be true. Truly, this truth is beyond true.
These are beyond words, inexpressible. Even through this mixed combination of sentences there comes no sense of what really I mean. Unite blue and green and then read this again. Well...
Today, I'm 16 and a third. Do I feel any older? Sure I do, maybe not that much older than I was when I was 15 but with age has come a rather intolerable attitude towards the younger teens of this world. It is those children who pretend to be teenagers so they can dominate Facebook with their stupid fan pages that lack correct grammar and, in fact, credible humour. If I owned Facebook I would perhaps ban those people who make my experience worse, perhaps I would stab them and threaten to shoot them if they planned to return.
What I can say with some sort of water with integrity is that I still love maths. Despite some minor and major failures it still hugs me with its loving arms and allows me to dream of equations future and past while my brain turns to 0's and 1's.
101010 is the meaning to my life. I wish the world would resort to just 0's and 1's to render itself. The duck over there, an infinite amount of characters contained within its body and even the exterior looks complicated beyond my means of understanding.
But this is a mathematical world.
It is a bit frightening that this is my last entry of 2010. Perhaps it would have been better if I had started the year with 100 words and therefore would be able to see how my writing has changed stylistically over the year. Alas, that I did not so I am doomed to live a life of never knowing.
New Years Eve, eh? What should I do? The real answer is nothing, as again I am doomed to live a life of loneliness. It is not isolation per se, but instead a willing to be let alone to revive.
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