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| User: | angelsworn (11583739) Not Really Into Blogging
... Let The Lynching Begin |
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| Name: | Angelsworn | |||||||
| Location: | Atascadero, California, United States | |||||||
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| AOL IM: |  Traphyker (Add Buddy, Send Message) | |||||||
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| Bio: | Four years ago, my life was very usual. I lived in the residence halls at California Polytechnic State University, a freshman. I sometimes attended classes; mostly I sat around on my computer chatting with my innumerable online community members and friends. On one particular message board, we were all asked to look down at ourselves and give a self-portrait. The following is what I wrote then: I'm online, again, still, always. I hate being here. I really do. I hate now my life has changed so much, that I spend so much of my awake hours in front of a computer. The internet has become my home, my stomping grounds ... I know most of you better than I know my hallmates. It's hard to imagine what it's like, being constantly connected. You don't have to wait, you just plug in and download directly into your brain. That's what it feels like. I've stopped seeing the screen, or the speakers, or the keyboard; direct neural I/O. I hate it. I'm tall, even seated. My hair falls around my ears and toward my shoulders, curlier than I'd like and always in the way. I can barely remember why I decided to grow it out in the first place; it only looks good when it's streaming back. Oh well. A few more weeks, perhaps, and then I'll cut it. I have horrible posture; even slouching in front of the computer, I can't get ROTC or Academy out of my system. I sit upright, hands directly in front of me, fingers dancing on the keyboard as I examine my post for minute errors. I don't like misspelling things, or screwing up my grammar. Maybe I'm too concerned with it, but I'm a bit of a perfectionist. Music in the background. Techno? Trance. Something with a pulsing beat and a repetitive rhythm that dances through my ears and drives the beat of my typing. I don't even know what it is. The playlist is obscured by the ever-present browser window. I've seen the colors of this board so often that I begin to suspect that I hate them. Anger, swirling in my skull, a dark throbbing in my temple. Why can't I have peace? Tranquility? Things of the past, drowned out by bad rap and drunken celebration. Status Quo. Inspired by Domini, I look at my hands. Strong, I think. Well defined. No fat on them. The tendons ripple across the backs of my hands as I type, the bones of my fingertips barely insulated from the shock of the key by a thin padding of flesh. Decorated as they are, they look isolated, separate somehow from the rest of my arms. The left, bordered by a large bracelet of silvered steel that impersonates a wristwatch, the right wrapped many times in crimson silk - the hand fasting cord of my wedding. A smile touches my lips, as it always does when I think of her. Some days I smile a lot. Shirtless, I'm sitting. I'm clad in dark blue jeans and combat boots, but enjoying the chill evening air across my skin. It's been raining all day, and the clouds have settled over us, no more than 300 feet off the ground. I want to go hiking, climb through the mist to the highest peaks and see every familiar step, ever well-worn path in a new light, ethereal as the fae creatures, a never-ending world of sudden shapes, and twilight shadows cast in all directions by the omnipresent environment. I would, but I'm starving. What have I had to eat today? Well, no wonder ... communion bread and coke doesn’t make a good meal, much less 3 good meals. Passover; when I get to contemplate my religion and purify my faith. But it gets so damned hungry. A stray thought crosses my mind; wasn't there a point to all this. Oh yes. Portrait. Well, I think, I'm not very impressive. Tall, hazel-green eyes, dark dark brown hair, olive skin on my arms and pale white everywhere else. My square glasses seem more a part of my face than something added after the fact. Their lenses tint a forever light brown, looking distinctly yellowish until you put sun on them. Transitions, but old. You adjust. I smile, bitterly. You spend your entire life adjusting, and before you know it you've been adjusted out of reality. Well, adjust this. Now, four years later, I look back on what I have written and think a very different thing. I look down at myself and see a very different person. Too many things have changed, too many people have changed. I have come to realize that the only constants are change, death, and taxes. I feel like I am a new person. To write a self-portrait now, I would see something different: I feel old. I feel like an old man trapped in the body of a man old but trying desperately to be young. I sit with too careful a posture, rest my hands too carefully on the keyboard. The passage of a few short years has changed me. Before, my keystrokes were harsh, angry, violent. Now, I type with more deliberate action, pausing a moment to collect my thoughts before I begin. I sit quietly for hours, with no music playing around me, or through the high-priced speakers that sit tumescent behind my monitor. I am tall, with green eyes that many have called striking. My hair is a dark, curly, wavy mass of tangles and knots, and it hangs to the center of my shoulder blades. Normally, it is restrained in a pony-tail, tied off just below the base of my skull. I barely notice my hair anymore. There are sounds around me – the whirring of my computer fans, the staccato rhythm of my girlfriend typing behind me. Yeah, I know – me with a live-in girlfriend. Her desk is opposite mine, so neither of us has to look at the condition of each others desk. Hers is spotlessly clean – mine, swinging like a pendulum between neatly organized and chaotically dirty. Currently: dirty. My hands rest loosely on the keyboard. They still look strong, but now they seem much more a part of me. The fingers have filled out a little bit, rounded off and smoothed. My wrists are no longer encircled by anything – I broke hand-fast years ago, and my wristwatch stopped working a month past. Still haven’t gotten around to replacing it, but I suspect I will soon. No longer shirtless, either – I’m too self conscious, and to subject to cold. Still, the jeans are at least a constant. These may even be the same pair. I look around me and see the signs of change: I have loved, and been loved in return. I have cats now, two of them, both boys. They fight constantly, destroy my things, and purr whenever they get picked up and placed onto a lap. I think I love them; I haven’t killed them yet, so maybe. I smile a lot now – just sitting and doing nothing, I find myself smiling. It’s a pleasant change from the morose S.O.B. I used to be. Hell, so much about myself has changed, it’s not even worth saying I’m the same person. I should change my name – let the old person lie still. Probably not a good idea. I’m comfortable with who I am, these days – a little bit, at least. Even if my joints do creak and crack. | |||||||
| Interests: | 8: art, books, cartoons, internet, literature, philosophy, romance, video games | |||||||
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| Mutual Friends: | 3: foxgrrl, redstar918, trema_slo | |||||||
| Account type: | Basic Account | |||||||
