Friday, December 10, 2004
from job-bot to blue-bot

In dull buzz of the daily life, the sound of it often gets lost... you just don't hear it, really. If it's Monday, you wake up to the sound of your clock alarm, hit the "OFF" button, and begin moving. You make your morning offering to the pocerlain throne, you wash up, shave, and then you throw on some clothes.

If you actually woke up early enough, maybe you fix yourself a snack to eat while you look over the morning paper, and sitting casually while you're having that drink of coffee, juice, tea, or whatever. If you're a pious person, you might say a prayer or read some Scripture. If you live with somebody, and they're up to, maybe you'll say something like, "Bye, Honey" or "Later" or "See Ya" or "Ittekimasu". Then you stand up, take your dishes to the sink, and head out to your car to commute to your job, or if you can, you ride the train. During the entire process, probably no real cognitive or deep thinking took place, because realistically, it wasn't necessary to accomplish any task you did as you were going through the motions.

And that's maybe not such a bad thing.

But when life slows down and you don't have a job, when you're deprived of the dull buzz of the daily routine, the sound is much more audible. Maybe it starts as a whisper, and it keeps whispering, meandering around in your mind at a steady pace. The quietness strips out the barriers that protect your mind from the sound of that voice. And often, so very often, that voice travels with an entourage.

Doubt. Regret.

In shades of blue and gray, even when you want to sleep, it speaks to you, painting your sorrow and highlighting your helplessness. Your anger has been blunted by time, and if once you were molded by rage, now, your details are etched with frustration and scratched up with bitterness. And like the bastard work of a forgotten artist, you, the still unfinished, mutilated piece is covered with a large sheet of melancholy, hidden from public eyes.

You'd like to ignore what the voice says. That the small whispers that it speaks are fragments of a deluded mind, or that it's the residual influence of mere present circumstances. But when the voice whispers to you, when in the moments of silence you try to meditate deeply about something, anything different... that's when the echo of the voice grows to a roaring crescendo - because it screams in the sound of your own voice.

But maybe, just maybe... that's the time it needs to be ignored the most.


.:.


This was written about 2 years ago
. Strange how sometimes some feelings always come back despite time.

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Comments:
it's a sign. get me that app, so I can get you a job.
 
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in?scrip?tion (n-skrip-shun)n.
1. The act or an instance of inscribing.
2. Something, such as the wording on a coin, medal, monument, or seal, that is inscribed.
3. A short, signed message in a book or on a photograph given as a gift.
4. The usually informal dedication of an artistic work.
5. Jeremiah 31:33

the facts.
name. Gar AKA "that Chinese guy" "Sleepy.McSleeping"
ethnicity/nationality. Chinese/American, 4th gen.
location. Sea-Town, WA, USA Kawanishi, JAPAN
occupation. less-cynical poor grad student
age. younger than you think, older than you know

 



 

[contact]
UnseenGC @ AIM
(myname) @ gmail.com

 

 

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