Pretentious cerebral jank like this is all I really love to/can write these days. So yay, loose themes, loose words, and somewhere in there a train of thought. None of this is edited or anything, like all my stories and such, but unlike those, this is all completely unrefined. A lot of it will be unreadable, and I will refine it based on my own thoughts and whatever feedback I may happen to get.
Crowds (written under the influence of Fever Ray)
He looked up from an electronic device. It wasn't clearly defined in his mind - a simple contour of lines and a bright screen, all of it wrapped up in a neat little acronym like a white elephant gift with actual value. There was a trend in the mass of people swarming around him, each one of them water molecules bound together like fluid, with occasional odds and ends in there - himself, for example, a stray bit of copper or some other transition metal thrown in by whatever corporation desalinated and bottled him - the idea of bottling fitting the situation, as the crowd was indoors. Everyone was moving towards something, that something left undisclosed to the general populace but known by the crowd overall, somehow. That was not fallacious, as it was happening. He looked around, and on one side was an obese man of impressive height and girth, and on the other end, both hiding behind and towering over the wall of people, was a wall. Composed of glass panes with the occasional grace note of concrete or a store display, the man placed himself as being in a mall. The gray areas he saw all around him filled in with consumerist vegetation as the jungle spread itself out in his vision. There was a smoky aura to the whole assembly - the lights were being dimmed by a blanket of haze, smoke, carbon dioxide, aerosols, a what-have-you hodgepodge of several semi-breathable gases. The lights were powerful and for the most part were able to shine through most of the haze, casting an ethereal glow on the mall. It was the most mysterious rat race ever witnessed - which was the key. Witness. The man was part of the mob mentality at first, walking in step with everyone else while WUPHFing about the gluten-free soy organic dolphin-safe bagel he just nibbled. But then he woke up, looked around him, and the world was unveiled to him as he broke free of the idealized modern malaise hated by so many alternative rock bands. He had broken the ice and breathed in the cold air of the real world.
*breaks fourth wall* Then the man realized that he could never truly escape it and go into the metaphorical void of space where the modern malaise of an atmosphere was oppressing the masses into being a materialistic hivemind. Why? Because the man was in a story, the author being so pretentious as to describe such freeing when truly there was nothing to be free of - or was there? The writer and the man had no idea. If there was a modern malaise they were both part of, they would be oblivious until they woke up. It stood to reason that, if it isn't anything, the realization cemented their role as a way for the malaise to know itself.
Ugh, these are all going to suck, but I need to get them out of my head so I can start consistently writing again.
I liked that, but I had no idea if they were just molecules or humans...You kind of mixed up your terminology, which was confusing. I did like it, though. Just a bit confusing.
Ouch my throat hurts. Probably from the theme you just shoved down there. Starting well and confusingly you write a very spindly story. I like the constant metaphors that you use at the start. Unfortunately this all breaks down when you break the fourth wall. The story could have remained abstract and not overtly 'retentious' if you refrained from laying all your cards on the table. Still if this is just a cleansing piece then it is ok.
That's more or less the point of the thread. If I write something worth keeping, I'll refine it into an actual piece. And the confusion in terminology was more or less intentional, because of the jumbled and confused nature of the piece and the crowd and all that pretentious stuff DX
Running away was easy. It involved only physical action - a jolt forward, a weight shift, another jolt forward, assemble into a clean run. Analysis of the path ahead was natural - if something could be run on or jumped over, that route was taken. The power of the hunt and the fear of the predator was all that was needed for one to successfully escape and to not fail in said escaping. Clearing the path was the difficult part - momentum came naturally, and once began, one wanted it to continue. Momentum was a drug. It blurred one's surroundings, leaving everything unspecific and easy to deal with, to classify. Speed, breathing, and position were all that one needed to track in order to survive in running away. It was easy - higher thought was a last resort, used only to ponder if the escape was successful, how long the running could go on, which route to take if needed. But when one stops, the blur goes away. The world becomes clearly defined, with beauty and ugliness both showing their true colors, instead of a jumbled soup of both of them. The primordial ideas of higher things such as morality fall away, and leave one with actual thoughts to think. The burden of higher thought wears one down much like the constant running would. It all reciprocates. So either way, tiredness is inescapable.
D SFD UEF USDF JSFDU JGPOSDJG OIURSJG OIUSIG UJEUF THIS IS TERRIBLE
I kept expecting it to turn into narrating the situation itself-- Why he/she was running away, from what, etc.
Like:
But the real problem was that my attacker was experienced. He was too fast, too smart, and too agile, making my escape difficult. He raced behind me, nimbly leaping over every obstacle, getting closer and closer with every step. I could hear him...
Or something.
It seemed so detached, looking upon the situation and never focusing on specific details.
It was pretty good, though, anyway. I figure you won't be editing it at all, though.
No, this is all stuff I need to get out of the way so I can get back into writing actual prose again. I always build stories off phrases and such, which is a weird approach, and I have too many bad ideas and not enough good ones, so I need to get the bad ones written out D:
If one turns out better than I thought it would, than I may keep it and revise it, but fnr now this is all stuff I need to get out of the way. Meh.
Yeah, I knew that... I just had to say something. Depending on how offensive you find this, that last one reminds me of the last book in the Twilight Saga. The narrator is so observant of its own actions...
It's good, not the normal style of writing but still really good, the idea reminded me of the book 1984 by George Orwell (if you've ever read it), I understand the feeling of having to get the writing out so you can just move on, I have story, or part of one, on here it's one of those, it felt like I would explode if I didn't get a little of it out. Anyway it's under "the beginings of my writing..." if you want to check it out...
