PHQ-Nickname:
Syndel
Halfquake:
Mania
Level:
74
Total kills:
19,884,443
Birthday:
00th 0000
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| Mood: | philosophic |
| Type: | Story |
| Added: | May 18th 2007, 00:55:21 |
| Visits: | 1690 |
| Rating: | 5/5 (Votes: 2) |
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 I stand upon a hill. The cool breeze disturbs the trees and they're leaves rustle, disturbing the stagnant air. I am acutely aware of the space surrounding me. The hill I stand upon is hard and cold. I veiw the world from my perch, higher than the Titans, lower than the lowliest peasent. I think back on what has happened.
There are thoose who would believe they had a choice, that they mean something. That they have free will. This is not for them. We veiw the world through our own eyeglass - a specialy made porthole through which the dramas of our life, our trails and tribulations become clear, twisted in our minds through the blender of logic and the strainer of prejudice. People are... faulty. They do not believe in logic. They do not believe in sense. People are often contradictory - we hear storys of other people's loss. Crimes, injustices or simply bad luck. We get so envolved in these storys they become part of us and we cling to it desperately - determined to weather the storm only to return and find your personal space just as you left it.
To put it simply - people don't think. People lack perspective - we respond to direct, unsubtle confrontation - the reason advertisments work so well. We focus on what we see, hear and what is designed to interest us. There could be a fatal car crash down the street from you, or a brutal torture of a child just houses away - you would never know for sure and yet this thought does not bother people. People say to this that things like these cannot be helped, that "They happen", that it is impossible to think of every occurance without going mad. Maybe this is what I am now? Mad? But I don't feel it. Just because I know something is or could be happening doesn't make me driven to guilt or forced to action. It's just a drop in the ocean.
Whole sleeping giants raise themselves to me on the hill. I see warriors who have, hidden in their eyes, the scars of battle, the pains of life and the experiance that has numbed their belief they can make a difference. I see the sigals of a hundred clans, a thousand dictatorships, a trillion democracys and the grave of the individual. There were heroes. They are never the ones that make it into the history books.
People come, people go. We measure our lives continuously through our interactions with other beings. Humans, like it or not, are social creatures - whether that interaction is violent, sensual, casual, subservient - the list goes on. We need other beings to reassure ourselves we exist. Adam needed his Eve, the blind man needed his dog, the team needed their mascot. Heroes, if they do exist, are us. Every one of us is a hero to something. To that spider we accidently stood on as it closed in on it's prey, we are the prey's life saver, to that fly we opened the window for, we rescued it from it's torture, to that man we gave tuppence to we are the hero who helped him get through that day... The problem is there is always another day. A day for the fly to get eaten, the day for a drunkard to sober up, the day a man is fired from his job for something out of control.
If there are heros... they are useless to us. Our hero is the man who allowed us ten minutes of comedy, the mother who cooked us dinner, the woman who would cuddle us when we feel lost. We idolise, we aspire... we accept help. Heroes are thoose who help us. They prolong our stagnation and prevent us from living ourselves.
But where was I? The hill? A metal curve striking out of the conciousness, The sleeping giants simply machinations of a wandering mind, the heroes fade as the morning due and suddenly all is clear. The one axis that we have no choice in is the one we are routed into most firmly. Time.
Wait long enough and no one will ever know you have existed. At best they will know someone like you existed. We feel that we know dinosaurs, huge towering behemoths, flying terrors and fast land predators, have all existed. We do not know how this one felt about it's prey on the morning of it's death, we do not know how this one suffered till it's final breath - all this shouldn't matter - it exists, isn't that enough? But no. People require drama. It is little appreciated how much drama matters to people. Authors will smile as they remember vivid descriptions of towering castles or crackling thunder but in the end the reader only remembers how, against all odds, the guy saved the girl, the prince slew the dragon, the evil dictator was overthrown etc. etc.
I think back on what has happened. I often think back. I have been told I would make a great analyst if only I could stop critising myself. I realise I haven't been completely clear, this was more of a rant then anything else but this is what I feel right now. The words flow, I move with them, shaping them to form some sort of message.
I stand on a plain. The hill is gone. As far as the eye can see is clear. I am at peace. |
flo
May 18th 2007, 15:12:26
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| Well written, I love it; keep it up! |
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flo
