It seems my habit of ignoring biological processes (like sleep) has once again gotten the best of me. It's 5am, and I just finished Halo with my roommate. And it's about time, too. Both of us are awful at driving those damned Warthogs. Opting for healthy exercise with our combat, we hoofed it through almost the whole game, ignoring our off-road friend the whole time, not even thinking that we might be required to operate one at the end of the game. It pays to be well rounded, people. Don't breed in weakness. Learn to drive those ATV's.
That aside, I took another snippet from my story. You have to understand I'm terribly shy about my writings, so it's hard for me to share too much at once. To explain what is going on here, I'm in the process of introducing the drug that keeps our hero from being infected by the virus he's been charged to keep at bay. If you haven't guessed, the story falls somewhere between the genre's of horror and sci-fi. Try to imagine if Lovecraft had written Blade Runner. The virus I spoke of, might be explained later. You have to understand I feel pretty conflicted about sharing. I want to, but I don't.
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The world comes back in a hum. This little sound, this trumpeting of it's arrival has become my very own Pavlovian alarm clock. Instinctively I reach into the right breast pocket of my dirty coat with fingers eager to snare a weathered plastic bottle. This pills always stink of rot, and their texture fools you into thinking that if you look hard enough, you might be able to see the individual granules of ingredients all compressed into such a tiny but explosive package.
If you time your dosage right, you'd forget in less than a year what it was like to be without them. As the pain of living slowly eases back into your bones, muscles begin to twitch slightly, remembering, with some confusion, that they're caught in a battle between a body that wishes to die and the stubborn chemical-dependant mind that controls it. After this happens a few times, you end up doing one of two things; the first being to simply time your doses, seeking solace in the numb fatigue that will allow you to do your job. The other is to learn to accept these lay-over periods, while you wait to be brought back to that line where you forget whether you're alive or dead and apathy is the governing power.
The latter, as you can see, is dangerous. These small sparks from that leftover glow of a once-lived life serve to ignite certain primordial fires that can be difficult for a man of weaker will than mine to combat. You go through the suicidal phases of questioning why you do your job at all if a job well done means a life of servitude to the chemical equivalent of a psychological white-wash. Soon the fork in the road rears it's ugly head. Take another pill or use one of the many methods at your disposal to put an end to your universe, the very one that, at some point in time, was designed just for you. Most of us opt for the pill.
Either way, you're killing yourself.
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Pardon any spelling errors. My pillow beckons, so I'm not in any mood to go back over this post with a fine toothed comb.
That aside, I took another snippet from my story. You have to understand I'm terribly shy about my writings, so it's hard for me to share too much at once. To explain what is going on here, I'm in the process of introducing the drug that keeps our hero from being infected by the virus he's been charged to keep at bay. If you haven't guessed, the story falls somewhere between the genre's of horror and sci-fi. Try to imagine if Lovecraft had written Blade Runner. The virus I spoke of, might be explained later. You have to understand I feel pretty conflicted about sharing. I want to, but I don't.
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The world comes back in a hum. This little sound, this trumpeting of it's arrival has become my very own Pavlovian alarm clock. Instinctively I reach into the right breast pocket of my dirty coat with fingers eager to snare a weathered plastic bottle. This pills always stink of rot, and their texture fools you into thinking that if you look hard enough, you might be able to see the individual granules of ingredients all compressed into such a tiny but explosive package.
If you time your dosage right, you'd forget in less than a year what it was like to be without them. As the pain of living slowly eases back into your bones, muscles begin to twitch slightly, remembering, with some confusion, that they're caught in a battle between a body that wishes to die and the stubborn chemical-dependant mind that controls it. After this happens a few times, you end up doing one of two things; the first being to simply time your doses, seeking solace in the numb fatigue that will allow you to do your job. The other is to learn to accept these lay-over periods, while you wait to be brought back to that line where you forget whether you're alive or dead and apathy is the governing power.
The latter, as you can see, is dangerous. These small sparks from that leftover glow of a once-lived life serve to ignite certain primordial fires that can be difficult for a man of weaker will than mine to combat. You go through the suicidal phases of questioning why you do your job at all if a job well done means a life of servitude to the chemical equivalent of a psychological white-wash. Soon the fork in the road rears it's ugly head. Take another pill or use one of the many methods at your disposal to put an end to your universe, the very one that, at some point in time, was designed just for you. Most of us opt for the pill.
Either way, you're killing yourself.
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Pardon any spelling errors. My pillow beckons, so I'm not in any mood to go back over this post with a fine toothed comb.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
So I'm requesting friendship, for what it's worth.