slow slow slow


Slow slow slow is how my writing is going. I can’t really get anything coherent started. I’m compiling Bleakly back into one file, rewriting some things as I go.

I’m infuriated that I can’t remember where I read this short story called “Snow” I think. It was a story in which a man lives with an older, wealthier woman and in spite of himself falls in love. She has her life recorded by a tiny wasp-like robot. After she dies he visits her grave where he, holder of the quantum key to unlock her life,  can access video of their daily lives, good times and bad, mundane and exciting, every moment in crystal clarity. At first. As a side effect of the storage method used, he can’t pick out which days to watch, he can’t rewind, he can only watch them in random order. Eventually the recording begins to degrade, and some “snow” begins to overtake the image. It’s haunting and beautiful and I can’t find anything about it anywhere. RARGH.

The following is a little more writing, it’s shitty. Some of it follows up on a concept I first put in my last post, I don’t think anyone read it though.

Everyone deals with their own mortality sometime. The new recruits can usually ignore it– after all, it’s not like they can really tell. It’s the veterans, hundreds of years older and arguably wiser, who’ve had the experiences that make resurrection a personal, jarring experience.

I was physically about twenty-four when it happened. I’d been in the Service for eight years; though I was still a fresh young officer. Thought I knew everything. I don’t remember anything about that night, of course, but I’ve seen the security surveillance of everything up to the part where she took me into her room. It turns out getting splattered by a jealous lover’s a not uncommon way for fresh blood to notch up their first non-combat death.

I felt a rushing behind my left temple as though tiny floodgates had been opened. Reality seemed to flicker briefly. I didn’t feel sick, just different. Colors brightened. Gravity seemed to pull in a slightly different direction. My imagination came a little more alive. I was suddenly aware that the edges of my perception aren’t the end of all things.

And now I understand. The asceticism, the self-hatred, the undirected vitriol.

You needed to be channeled, contained. You needed direction because you could not, or would not choose one for youself.

It has taken me long to come to this realization. Now I get it.

So I will be your master. I will take control. You do not have a choice in this matter. I do not know whether you’ll like it at first, but I know now that it’s what you need.

This is the heart of what I now choose to become: to give you not what you want, but what you need.

I’m going to finish this, she thought. I’m going to keep going until there’s nothing left, and then I’m going to build a brand new one from the beginning.

Sweetness and light, darkness and bitterness. Two sides of the same coin. Cliche, creativity, born of each other, subtle brothers hand in hand.

This is your job, retard. This, this is it. You can get paid to do this. You think you’re good at it? Then prove it! Stand up, let the primal you communicate what you are.

It was a dark green night, and the stars twinkled brightly a few inches from my face. The smell of burning flesh filled my nostrils. I couldn’t remember a thing.

2 Responses to “slow slow slow”

  1. Sebatinsky Says:

    I did read the other post. I’m not certain I understand this one, though.

  2. gryfft Says:

    It’s several different threads of thought. Incoherent.

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