For me, a bar code represents that something is generic. Bar codes are used in many systems to keep track and categorize different items. The items are all alike, the failed attempts were disposed of during creation, and only the true copies are left to remain.
For several years I've wanted to obtain a bar code tattoo over my chest. I came into this world with a bar code, even if it isn't present on me; we all do. Middle class, lower class. My parents both had their problems, they started to tell me about them a few years ago. Kind of amazed I'm sitting in a dorm room right now even typing this for a college class. Where would I be if I had been a copy of my parents?
Growing up in a small town that, to me, was like a black hole. People die there. They get old, move there, or they grow up there and just can't make enough impact on the rest of the world and become sucked back in. I again wore this bare code of sorts, I was marked for being a small town kid, from a little high school and little else. Still amazes me to be sitting here like I said. But now, what if I can't make it? Sink back to that black hole? As scary as it sounds, I can feel it pulling on me.
Even today I carry another set of codes that are seen clearly on me. For a long while I was instantly tagged as a typical pot head. Amazing, seeing as when presented with the drug I wouldn't have a clue if it was true or just some grass. People saw me as a certain person the moment they saw me. I had already been categorized even if was done incorrectly.
The bar code, for me, had a dual meaning that in someways contradict each other. For one, it would represent that generalization and assumptions that are placed, printed, on me. Every time I looked to it, think of it, or anything like that I could be reminded that I do not want to live up to their assumptions. I am a person. I am an individual. This would be a constant reminder to myself to be just that, myself, and not be what others might think I should be. On the other side, I accept and acknowledge that I'm very similar to most people. We all breath air, don't we? I walk the same streets anyone else is entitled to walk. Furthermore, I have a belief that everything happens for a reason. The number that would make up the meaning of the bar code would be different numbers making up parts of my birth date, and other numbers that are said to be specific for myself. I enjoy researching horoscopes, and numerology, and other various ideas that pertain to the uncontrolled aspects of your life, such as date of birth and the number of vowels present in your name. For the time being, I know not of what numbers I'd like to compose my tattoo of, but for now, I merely know that I will someday live to betray and portray my bar code. For me, it's almost a ying yang type symbol, only straighter.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Character One | WS
Rachel; (OLD VERSION)
5'7". Light blue eyes with large bouncing curls of brown hair. Large curls, not the small stringy stuff. Starts by wearing all white wolf fur. Pure white with black linings on the hood, cuffs, and trim of the coat. Higher dark hiking boots.
What's special about this character?
Her past?
Family?
What is her personality like? Flaws?
In this story; what does she add to it?
Conflicts? Interests?
Describe her in three words;
--------------------------------------------------------------
Rachel; (NEW VERSION)
5'6". Blue eyes, darker near her retina and lighten outs quickly as it rushes to the boarder of it. Large bouncing curls of dark brown hair that cascades down to just a bit below her shoulder blades. Large curls, not the smaller. Tends to be dressed in white, closely fitting clothing that accents her fit body. Carries a belt with various pouches.
She's a high tier torture based about ten years from the present. Unsure of her connection with anyone for the time being, but in any case she would be a part of an extremely secretive and faraway base. The station, however, would actually be near a small town community that has little idea of what goes on over head. Rachel often looks down to the town in hopes of going some day for a reason she really has no idea about. She deals with some of the most important people in the world at the time. In this future there are nearly an uncountable amount of global 'players' that govern much of how the world is run. Using torture, a form of questioning and methodology that had practically gone extinct for so very many years has come around is used here at several different levels depending on the importance of the case.
A display of rank for the tortures here is their outfit, and with Rachel's being so white it is a display of her perfection in the art. Using mostly chemical means for torture, along with very precise tools meant to extract pain to a near unbelievable amount and also be capable of bringing a person from the steps of the underworld. The lower rank a torture is the darker their suits will be as to make the blood thats shed seem less apparent.
She holds a very scary perspective on life and death. She, of all people, know how close you can get and how little it takes to push a person too far; life is an extremely fragile thing. In that sense though, she plays with it often, always looking for new ways to get a person just a hair closer to meeting their fate and then taking them back. Obviously, she is so desensitized to death. Could easily end the lives of millions if that was reported to be her "duty" and never look back on it. With this feeling comes one of her major personality traits and that is her childish enjoyment with torture. Loves seeing their reaction. It's a passion to her, it's how she gets a kick out of life.
One of her biggest flaws is how accepting she is of so much. Like a child. Why is the sky blue? Well, someone told her it was that way, and she blindly accepted it. Every day she takes pills, at this point in life the idea of eating and indulging in such things has become an activity for the superior, it's far cheaper and more affective to digest pills that act as little generators in their stomach by using the energy in the acid to continually make nutrients for the body. Along with these pills she takes a memory suppressor unknowingly every day that is specially created to remove ideas of her past. The reason for this is part of her training, many potential tortures are released because the pill does not adequately hide all the underlying subconscious memories that may conflict with what they have to do to the people.
Describing her in three words
Playful, Deadly, Lost
5'7". Light blue eyes with large bouncing curls of brown hair. Large curls, not the small stringy stuff. Starts by wearing all white wolf fur. Pure white with black linings on the hood, cuffs, and trim of the coat. Higher dark hiking boots.
What's special about this character?
Her past?
Family?
What is her personality like? Flaws?
In this story; what does she add to it?
Conflicts? Interests?
Describe her in three words;
--------------------------------------------------------------
Rachel; (NEW VERSION)
5'6". Blue eyes, darker near her retina and lighten outs quickly as it rushes to the boarder of it. Large bouncing curls of dark brown hair that cascades down to just a bit below her shoulder blades. Large curls, not the smaller. Tends to be dressed in white, closely fitting clothing that accents her fit body. Carries a belt with various pouches.
She's a high tier torture based about ten years from the present. Unsure of her connection with anyone for the time being, but in any case she would be a part of an extremely secretive and faraway base. The station, however, would actually be near a small town community that has little idea of what goes on over head. Rachel often looks down to the town in hopes of going some day for a reason she really has no idea about. She deals with some of the most important people in the world at the time. In this future there are nearly an uncountable amount of global 'players' that govern much of how the world is run. Using torture, a form of questioning and methodology that had practically gone extinct for so very many years has come around is used here at several different levels depending on the importance of the case.
A display of rank for the tortures here is their outfit, and with Rachel's being so white it is a display of her perfection in the art. Using mostly chemical means for torture, along with very precise tools meant to extract pain to a near unbelievable amount and also be capable of bringing a person from the steps of the underworld. The lower rank a torture is the darker their suits will be as to make the blood thats shed seem less apparent.
She holds a very scary perspective on life and death. She, of all people, know how close you can get and how little it takes to push a person too far; life is an extremely fragile thing. In that sense though, she plays with it often, always looking for new ways to get a person just a hair closer to meeting their fate and then taking them back. Obviously, she is so desensitized to death. Could easily end the lives of millions if that was reported to be her "duty" and never look back on it. With this feeling comes one of her major personality traits and that is her childish enjoyment with torture. Loves seeing their reaction. It's a passion to her, it's how she gets a kick out of life.
One of her biggest flaws is how accepting she is of so much. Like a child. Why is the sky blue? Well, someone told her it was that way, and she blindly accepted it. Every day she takes pills, at this point in life the idea of eating and indulging in such things has become an activity for the superior, it's far cheaper and more affective to digest pills that act as little generators in their stomach by using the energy in the acid to continually make nutrients for the body. Along with these pills she takes a memory suppressor unknowingly every day that is specially created to remove ideas of her past. The reason for this is part of her training, many potential tortures are released because the pill does not adequately hide all the underlying subconscious memories that may conflict with what they have to do to the people.
Describing her in three words
Playful, Deadly, Lost
Monday, September 10, 2007
Spell Form
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Amenti quite plainly and with firm confidence in her stand on the subject. A long drawn out sigh was followed by moments of silence as the two continued to stare at the recreation of the spell form on the deep mahogany desk. The fireplace crackled softly and the candles were on there last stretches before the wicks would be used up. Along with the spell form draw meticulously on a weathered piece of paper sat tall stacks of ancient books the two had been reading through. Some were in their native tongue while others had to be translated very slowly and carefully by their trained skill in such arts. Other charms and trinkets of magic lay haphazardly over the desk, they all had something in common, they were each unique and worth fortunes.
“It must, it has to,” blurted the in the room, his brows drew together, his look seemed to be half trying to convince himself while the other half simply dismayed the possibility.
A long slender finger tapped 3 distinct lines on the spell, “these can’t be, they contradict the principles of binary spell casting. And here,” her finger traveled to a small circle sitting outside of the whole spell form, “this can’t be as well. See how it’s completely detached? It’s another false that would mean there is a space beyond the veil in which this, here,” she tapped a similar circle that was encased in lines and runes, “is present at any one time. To say that there is a place, or object that is identical in everyway somewhere in this world, and the world past the veil is like saying there is no veil at all. Once through the veil into the underworld, the rules change, but the great wizards told that no one thing can be reproduced outside the veil that is already within it.” Amenti Stood straighter and admired her point of view. It was true, the spell had functions within it that would be considered impossible, but Kai knew from experience that the rules change once you cross into spell forms and rune casting.
“You’re forgetting though. This.” A skilled finger lightly followed one of the lines that had been encasing the circle Amenti pointed out. “Inverse. The function states that no two objects or places can exist within the veil and out of it at the same time, but if the caster were to do this, simply invert the function, it no longer becomes the same object. It’s important to note, however, that when the object is inverted, it should lose all its current properties and be given a new set of ‘rules’. But, again, just because it’s inverted doesn’t mean its roots can’t be traced back.”
“What would be the point of that? It makes no sense!”
Kai smiled warmly at her frustration, he knew the feeling well and enjoyed watching her mind slowly turn the ideas behind her blue eyes. “To send information, of course. After the second war, remember how the Three started trying to bring back the dead? This was when they first realized that no object can be present both in the veil and out of it. The bodies, the people they tried to bring back to life, were never what the original person was like.” Kai turned from the conversation and walked to the tall dark bookshelf, moving objects and papers as he searched the shelves. Retrieving a very old, well kept book, he slowly paced back to the desk as he read. “I quote; Attempted one of the Ren he’Da. A young solider, Nydul Serev, first rank of the Dracona Army was assassinated while protecting the Shrine. A poison was slipped into one of his meals and night after was found decease where he slept, the assassin was..”
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Duty | WS
-- Published this post for the sake of having it out there. Total WIP (Work in Progress).
The torturer stood straight, looking out to the city below. Silence's only company was that of the heavy breathing from the prisoner laying lamely on the floor. To the abused man this woman was his last link to the world of the living and also the one that held the key to the door of eternal death. Mentally, she slide her finger along this key as she slowly pulled her lower lip through her teeth, pondering if she should finally release the hold and let this man part to the afterlife. With an almost childish feel she giggled as she let the mental image of releasing him drop.
The sound of dripping water began to mesh with the mans breathing. He was starting to recover from the last 'questioning'. The prisoners name meant little, so little that he was referred to as cell 18. This was a dungeon that consisted of 25 of these such rooms and were reserved only for the use and containment of highly prized information contained in human vessels. The tortures name meant so much it wasn't even spoken; it evoked fear to a degree that's never known until you become her prisoner. Vespette, better known in short as Vesp, was this such woman. A specialist in torture. A weapon.
Vesp turned quickly and within two steps closed the distance between herself and the man that now had managed to struggle to his knees. He blinked slowly. By the looks of it he might have more of his blood across the floor then beating in him now. His eyes moved slowly, dully, like a person would that knew the sun would never rise again.
-----
A single tear rolled down her emotionless face slowly, occasionally stalling as if it were looking back from its origin, curious as to why she didn't show more feeling. Blink. Again, her face showed emotionless but the temperature of her skin rose sharply, making quick do to the slight moistness left by the tear as it departed from her chin. Blink.
Her name was Rachel though not many knew her by this name. Many, many more knew her as Vespette. She peered out of her tiny circular window into the surrounding city. With pure concentration she turned her head back toward the door and gave a single nod. The solider standing there returned the gesture and quickly left the room with two servants close at hand. The sound of a bolt sliding to place on the other side was all that could be heard; it rang throughout the small dungeon. Chains where a common wall decoration here, along with a small pile of incredibly old hay and a shallow dish that carried a little water. In the center of the room was a chair, made of cold stone carved from the floor itself with a weary man in rags. His head was slouched to the side; there was no energy left in him, only a glimmering hope that one day it would all end.
As Rachel turned to her prisoner he made a struggled attempt at looking in her eyes. She quickly averted her view to a rake of different utensils and took a few meticulous steps towards it. Once she was sure his gaze dropped back down she again stepped closer with a vial of dark liquid that had a blue haze about it.
"You already know what I'm going to ask. Please. Answer," she whispered to him. After removing the small cork from the vial she let a single drop land on his dirty hand. Instantly his skin began to rupture and bleed as the fluid tore into him. Suddenly full of energy he kicked his head back and let out a heart wrenching scream. The pain was so intense his rags would contort and shift as his muscles fired independently under them, attempted to wrench themselves from his own body and the pain. Air came to him in sharp frantic heaves that slowly dulled into deep panting as his hand stopped rupturing. Tears flowed freely from him and he slowly rose his shaking hand toward her only to be stopped by the chains that held him. Still, he tired, pushing against the chains with whatever power he had left. The last of his strength quickly shifted to nothing more then a jerkier hand. His entire body shivered and his eyes were held tightly shut.
The gentle resonance of her voice helped him slowly open his eyes. Rachel could only look with a shield of imaginary confidence in what she was doing. That her actions were justified. She turned back to the window, taking a few steps and angling her face so she could see her reflection in the void-like window. She has a calm, collective look on her face, with eyes that appeared like they could of been a sign of sure death. She hated it. The look, the feelings she was holding deep in her. Hated it. Some say it's a strong word to use; hate, but this was against everything she was.
Comments from me to me;
The character is flat. Following a plot and not the people it has in it. Develop both characters.
Note for improvement; Pre-this add in a case where Rachel goes about her 'average' torture routine. During her encounter with the person in this story there needs to be a better impression that she has meet this person before. Create that tie. For the part after this show a deeper connection when shes alone. (Possibly shine a little light on her newest prisoner?) Then back to an 'average' day for her?
The torturer stood straight, looking out to the city below. Silence's only company was that of the heavy breathing from the prisoner laying lamely on the floor. To the abused man this woman was his last link to the world of the living and also the one that held the key to the door of eternal death. Mentally, she slide her finger along this key as she slowly pulled her lower lip through her teeth, pondering if she should finally release the hold and let this man part to the afterlife. With an almost childish feel she giggled as she let the mental image of releasing him drop.
The sound of dripping water began to mesh with the mans breathing. He was starting to recover from the last 'questioning'. The prisoners name meant little, so little that he was referred to as cell 18. This was a dungeon that consisted of 25 of these such rooms and were reserved only for the use and containment of highly prized information contained in human vessels. The tortures name meant so much it wasn't even spoken; it evoked fear to a degree that's never known until you become her prisoner. Vespette, better known in short as Vesp, was this such woman. A specialist in torture. A weapon.
Vesp turned quickly and within two steps closed the distance between herself and the man that now had managed to struggle to his knees. He blinked slowly. By the looks of it he might have more of his blood across the floor then beating in him now. His eyes moved slowly, dully, like a person would that knew the sun would never rise again.
-----
A single tear rolled down her emotionless face slowly, occasionally stalling as if it were looking back from its origin, curious as to why she didn't show more feeling. Blink. Again, her face showed emotionless but the temperature of her skin rose sharply, making quick do to the slight moistness left by the tear as it departed from her chin. Blink.
Her name was Rachel though not many knew her by this name. Many, many more knew her as Vespette. She peered out of her tiny circular window into the surrounding city. With pure concentration she turned her head back toward the door and gave a single nod. The solider standing there returned the gesture and quickly left the room with two servants close at hand. The sound of a bolt sliding to place on the other side was all that could be heard; it rang throughout the small dungeon. Chains where a common wall decoration here, along with a small pile of incredibly old hay and a shallow dish that carried a little water. In the center of the room was a chair, made of cold stone carved from the floor itself with a weary man in rags. His head was slouched to the side; there was no energy left in him, only a glimmering hope that one day it would all end.
As Rachel turned to her prisoner he made a struggled attempt at looking in her eyes. She quickly averted her view to a rake of different utensils and took a few meticulous steps towards it. Once she was sure his gaze dropped back down she again stepped closer with a vial of dark liquid that had a blue haze about it.
"You already know what I'm going to ask. Please. Answer," she whispered to him. After removing the small cork from the vial she let a single drop land on his dirty hand. Instantly his skin began to rupture and bleed as the fluid tore into him. Suddenly full of energy he kicked his head back and let out a heart wrenching scream. The pain was so intense his rags would contort and shift as his muscles fired independently under them, attempted to wrench themselves from his own body and the pain. Air came to him in sharp frantic heaves that slowly dulled into deep panting as his hand stopped rupturing. Tears flowed freely from him and he slowly rose his shaking hand toward her only to be stopped by the chains that held him. Still, he tired, pushing against the chains with whatever power he had left. The last of his strength quickly shifted to nothing more then a jerkier hand. His entire body shivered and his eyes were held tightly shut.
The gentle resonance of her voice helped him slowly open his eyes. Rachel could only look with a shield of imaginary confidence in what she was doing. That her actions were justified. She turned back to the window, taking a few steps and angling her face so she could see her reflection in the void-like window. She has a calm, collective look on her face, with eyes that appeared like they could of been a sign of sure death. She hated it. The look, the feelings she was holding deep in her. Hated it. Some say it's a strong word to use; hate, but this was against everything she was.
Comments from me to me;
The character is flat. Following a plot and not the people it has in it. Develop both characters.
Note for improvement; Pre-this add in a case where Rachel goes about her 'average' torture routine. During her encounter with the person in this story there needs to be a better impression that she has meet this person before. Create that tie. For the part after this show a deeper connection when shes alone. (Possibly shine a little light on her newest prisoner?) Then back to an 'average' day for her?
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Her name is Pain | WS
She's like a pill that comes with different side affects; each unique to the individual. Some take the safe road and avoid her part of town. Something about the way she works through your body scares you. Makes you shiver just thinking about the initial feeling, first touch. A needle, piercing your flesh, slides through your muscles, into more tissue. Cold steel kiss with a promise unlike any other; Pain.
Others.. well, become engulfed in her presences, indulge in her misunderstood personality. The delicate but direct way she moves her body, coursing through your being. Thump-thump.. thump-thump. She can dwell in your mind making sure you thinking of nothing else but her. You don't usually mention the affair to others, but you love it. Some find that when Pain comes she brings a few friends: excitement, adrenaline, adventure. Never know when she'll stop. You're out of breath but you crave more. On your knees and completely in her mercy. Your hearts screaming for an end but she whispers that it's only starting, and you smile; Pain.
Many describe pain as a feeling. Some might even note it as an emotion, like being happy or sad. I don't see pain as being that way. It, she, evokes emotion. Like a catalysis. We're the chemical compound and depending on our mood, personality, and circumstance emit different out comes when she's introduced to our equation. Pleasure, reality, panic, worry, lust. Pain is real. You can see someone portray sadness, but what do you see when someone is in pain? It depends. Often, she will make you squeeze your eyes tight and cause your muscles to strain to hold back the screams. Other times, she works her magic a little slower and your face starts to pull a bit, and that since of worried hopelessness is splashed across your features as time slowly, ever so slowly, ticks by while she increases the fire. And even others start to feel the corner of their mouths curl a bit as your heart beats a little fast.. and fast. Your mind begins calculating how much you can take; she just keeps watching, smiling, continuing until you've had your fill, or too much.
Some fear her more then anything else. Her uncontrollable and unpredictable nature at times is just too much. Some love her and the games she plays. Always wanting a little more and she's always happy to make you reach that next level. Either way, she feeds off the energy that's pouring from your thoughts. She is never far, and always ready. Have you ever stopped and realized what you could of just done? Ever caught yourself before you hit the concrete? Or remember to change your razor blade before shaving? That tiny shiver of realization that sweeps over those that notice is her lush, warm lips.. You avoided her this time. Be weary though, or maybe excited, because there will be many more chances to feel her fangs.
Her name is Pain.
Others.. well, become engulfed in her presences, indulge in her misunderstood personality. The delicate but direct way she moves her body, coursing through your being. Thump-thump.. thump-thump. She can dwell in your mind making sure you thinking of nothing else but her. You don't usually mention the affair to others, but you love it. Some find that when Pain comes she brings a few friends: excitement, adrenaline, adventure. Never know when she'll stop. You're out of breath but you crave more. On your knees and completely in her mercy. Your hearts screaming for an end but she whispers that it's only starting, and you smile; Pain.
Many describe pain as a feeling. Some might even note it as an emotion, like being happy or sad. I don't see pain as being that way. It, she, evokes emotion. Like a catalysis. We're the chemical compound and depending on our mood, personality, and circumstance emit different out comes when she's introduced to our equation. Pleasure, reality, panic, worry, lust. Pain is real. You can see someone portray sadness, but what do you see when someone is in pain? It depends. Often, she will make you squeeze your eyes tight and cause your muscles to strain to hold back the screams. Other times, she works her magic a little slower and your face starts to pull a bit, and that since of worried hopelessness is splashed across your features as time slowly, ever so slowly, ticks by while she increases the fire. And even others start to feel the corner of their mouths curl a bit as your heart beats a little fast.. and fast. Your mind begins calculating how much you can take; she just keeps watching, smiling, continuing until you've had your fill, or too much.
Some fear her more then anything else. Her uncontrollable and unpredictable nature at times is just too much. Some love her and the games she plays. Always wanting a little more and she's always happy to make you reach that next level. Either way, she feeds off the energy that's pouring from your thoughts. She is never far, and always ready. Have you ever stopped and realized what you could of just done? Ever caught yourself before you hit the concrete? Or remember to change your razor blade before shaving? That tiny shiver of realization that sweeps over those that notice is her lush, warm lips.. You avoided her this time. Be weary though, or maybe excited, because there will be many more chances to feel her fangs.
Her name is Pain.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
V U L | WS
I'm confused.
Seriously.
Is my heart skipping or hesitating? What's this music I feel?
There's no sound but I still feel the vibration twisting through my existence.
Up.. down.. up.. down.
My head bops.
Shoulders start to shiver a bit and a snake crawls down my spin.
Deeper breath.. In.. out.. out.. out..
Locked. The pools of my soul dwell in hers.
I can't leave.
This is new to me. Very new.
Verifying my feelings is so difficult; discovering hers is even harder.
Do they mesh? Am I just dreaming? Do I really want it to be more?
The way she moves, talks, and gives me that glance; beauty.
Every day I talk. Each time I want to ask what she thinks.
But I'm worried.
What if? What if not?
Just too pretty for me, but these feelings won't stop bugging me.
She would never go for someone so variable as me.
(Note from me; This is experimental formatting.)
--->(Note2 from me; Wow.. This is crappy. Don't read this one. Seriously. /goes to find a grave)
Seriously.
Is my heart skipping or hesitating? What's this music I feel?
There's no sound but I still feel the vibration twisting through my existence.
Up.. down.. up.. down.
My head bops.
Shoulders start to shiver a bit and a snake crawls down my spin.
Deeper breath.. In.. out.. out.. out..
Locked. The pools of my soul dwell in hers.
I can't leave.
This is new to me. Very new.
Verifying my feelings is so difficult; discovering hers is even harder.
Do they mesh? Am I just dreaming? Do I really want it to be more?
The way she moves, talks, and gives me that glance; beauty.
Every day I talk. Each time I want to ask what she thinks.
But I'm worried.
What if? What if not?
Just too pretty for me, but these feelings won't stop bugging me.
She would never go for someone so variable as me.
(Note from me; This is experimental formatting.)
--->(Note2 from me; Wow.. This is crappy. Don't read this one. Seriously. /goes to find a grave)
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Immortality | WS
-- Published this post for the sake of having it out there. Total WIP (Work in Progress).
It is possible to imitate immortality, because if your memories are preserved, you are preserved.
Everyone knows about self preservation, right? It's why we're all so weary of death and passing away. It's also easy to see how, usually, wealthier people tend to fear the end to a greater extent then would a poorer man. The reason? They realize all the things they've accumulated over their life time ends the moment they do. You take your last breath, and then what? Your items go to family, or auction. Your name is erased from many lists at this point and added to the obituary and your tome stone.
What do we really leave? I'm one human of what, 6 billion? 1 of 6,000,000,000. And the number grows daily. Numerically I'm equivalent to 0% of the population (Usually in math when talking about large numbers incredible small numbers lose their value and become 0). Every action I make is irrelevant, every life I influence makes no difference. If there was ever a real example of the definition of hopelessness, this would be it. For the sake of making this all just a tiny bit worse, I'm pretty sure our galaxy (Note that I said galaxy, not solar system) is probably only 1 of hundreds of trillions. If you look at it that way, you could almost safely say that anything the entire human race achieves is mathematically 0.
Now! Don't jump off a bridge because of that. Hopefully while you read this you'll have a few names come to mind: Aristotle, Galileo, Lincoln, and countless others. The number of lives they've influenced is probably so large that, again, mathematically the number.. is.. Infinite. Can the same be said about you? I think it can. Already you've started to work out of the number 0. I know many more people then I could ever count. Each of them might, somewhere, in the very back of their head remember me. Many born before me in my family know my name, and my works. The same can be said about people in my family in the future. My children will know me (until they hit their teens) and hopefully stories of me will be passed to their children. The memories of me can live for a handful or two generations before my name starts to fade off. That's just my family. We all have good friends, right?
Comment from me to me; Too much blah.
It is possible to imitate immortality, because if your memories are preserved, you are preserved.
Everyone knows about self preservation, right? It's why we're all so weary of death and passing away. It's also easy to see how, usually, wealthier people tend to fear the end to a greater extent then would a poorer man. The reason? They realize all the things they've accumulated over their life time ends the moment they do. You take your last breath, and then what? Your items go to family, or auction. Your name is erased from many lists at this point and added to the obituary and your tome stone.
What do we really leave? I'm one human of what, 6 billion? 1 of 6,000,000,000. And the number grows daily. Numerically I'm equivalent to 0% of the population (Usually in math when talking about large numbers incredible small numbers lose their value and become 0). Every action I make is irrelevant, every life I influence makes no difference. If there was ever a real example of the definition of hopelessness, this would be it. For the sake of making this all just a tiny bit worse, I'm pretty sure our galaxy (Note that I said galaxy, not solar system) is probably only 1 of hundreds of trillions. If you look at it that way, you could almost safely say that anything the entire human race achieves is mathematically 0.
Now! Don't jump off a bridge because of that. Hopefully while you read this you'll have a few names come to mind: Aristotle, Galileo, Lincoln, and countless others. The number of lives they've influenced is probably so large that, again, mathematically the number.. is.. Infinite. Can the same be said about you? I think it can. Already you've started to work out of the number 0. I know many more people then I could ever count. Each of them might, somewhere, in the very back of their head remember me. Many born before me in my family know my name, and my works. The same can be said about people in my family in the future. My children will know me (until they hit their teens) and hopefully stories of me will be passed to their children. The memories of me can live for a handful or two generations before my name starts to fade off. That's just my family. We all have good friends, right?
Comment from me to me; Too much blah.
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