Sep. 23rd, 2005

[identity profile] nodis.livejournal.com
Lots of appologies for being really , really late .
The problem I had with this topic was not the lack of inspiration , but former the irony within that I`m an insomniac myself (as you can see) and therefore I found it really hard not to write in a style, which was too personal and that`s quite difficult when you spent all night unable to concentrate on the tiniest thing, coz there should have been more sleep... So , don`t know if there was any success...



His eyes were fixed on the screen. He didn`t know anymore, how many nights he had spent in front of it. The machine was fucked. Twentie-five years by now. Unbelievable, but true and for him there was no way for substitution. He had to live with it, whether he wanted or not.
During the day it seemed to be OK, went crazy from time to time, though most of the work could be done. But whenever he had in mind to shut it down, it went berserk. The Computer started to revolt against him, as if it knew that the next rest could be it`s last.
When he came near the power-button a familiar, crackling noise appeared and - *ping* *ping* *ping* - all the programmes reactivated themselves in strict rotation :

At first Winamp, which he tried to close since three years, would turn up the volume till there was no sound, but the deafening, high-speed rhythms of some random Heavy Metal band.
Hereupon Word would appear, several times, with texts it refused to him to complete before. Letters, summaries , compositions, employment reports, stories and poems, posts supposed to be in the web by the time , ...
But whenever he should make an attempt to finish one of those, an other one would magically pop up in front of it.
The "To-Do"-list was next, followed by calendar and his "Trigger"-list. By the time he wanted to use them during day, they were not to be found within all the files, which he never has been able to delete during the years and there was more than one "Oh my God" audible from his lips, when he came across forgotten things.
And as the memory section seemed to be touched a flood of information seemed to find their way through the system. News, histories and biographies, stories and books he had read in the internet, recently downloaded programmes, which he hadn`t even been able to install correctly , , because the Hardrive had sucked it into it-s depths, even unequal relevant stuff from school, which had overwintered 7 years - presentations, scientific researches, vocabulary, ...
Following the factual mementos the personal ones would emerge.- Chat-recollections and posts of cyber-friends with stories , long and short, merry and lachrymose, helpful and solutionless, most of them sadly unfinished and hopeless.
Ultimately the last programme, which harried him the most, would start to fill the screen and even cover most of the other chaos.
Pictures. Imagary, inexplicably deap-seated unto the shallows of the micro-cells, willing to haunt the faceplate every single night. Some of them looked familiar. There were shots of his family, friends, acquaintances, even pets and the critters of neighbours. But most of them he wasn`t able to asign to something and those were the most disturbing .
Where did he get those omnious images? How came it, that there was so much injustice, violence, death, melancholy, sadness , desparation and fear... ? Why were they unquenchable? Why ... why ... where, who , why .... why , why , WHY ???

Secretly , he knew the answer, but he tried to avoid digging out the sleeping virus. And so, another night was spent in unsuccessful attempt of erasure in hope that there might loom a possibility to get a grip on the insanity of this machine called - brain.
[identity profile] ferrousoxide.livejournal.com
Because i'm incredibly lazy, you all get something i did for my large format photo class a few years back. It was really more about self-portraits than the sins themselves, which my prof didn't get and gave me a poor grade for "lack of vision."

here

Why is it that everyone remembers the seven deadly sins (except, of course, for the one that you can never remember and therefore suffer from), but no one can remember the seven corresponding virtues?

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