http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4b0fdETmRng

I'm confused.

Where have I shown that I believe that I'm the "center" of everyone else's life?

Or that I believe that something in another's life *always* has to do with me--because that's what you're assuming. "Something in someone else's life may have ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with you." No shit it may have nothing to do with me.

Everything in one's life is always about one's self. To think otherwise is to deny the obvious.

1:42

I don't know what's going on right now, but I don't like it.
And this is the easiest way to get in touch with you.
So say hello to me sometime. I miss talking with you.
We kindasorta haven't in a while.

The Strokes

I'd never heard one of their songs before. Randomly looked them up. They're really, really good imo.

Am I lame for liking them?

What the fuck do I care.

Fuck you. 

Don't judge me.

O Fridur - Finally, some names.

I knew I wanted it to be a plane crash. I like using "modern events" to twist into my story. I know each and every kid, and what they're like (although they're still allowed to surprise me) but I don't know their names. But I want to honor Flight 3407 in this. So I will. 

Here's what I've got to work with:

Allison

"Ellie"

Susan

Marvin

Rebecca

Doug

Carl

Beverly (Sean)

Gerry

Coleman

Matilda

Maddy

Don

David

Lorin

Jean

Zhaofang

Donna

Kevin

John

Jerome

Ron

Mary

Bethany

I'm bad with names for stories, so I normally just make them up. Names are unimportant. I don't even really remember the names of those in my earlier stories . . . which is somewhat depressing. And pathetic.  We'll see how this works out. I have to write more tomorrow. Have to.

Don't worry.

You'll find that inspiration somewhere. Somewhere.

I hear crying that isn't mine.

I don't know what to say.

I had a three-line "poem" in my head before this, but now it's gone. Apparently it wasn't good enough.

Someone talk to me.

Untitled

It's already past, and passed.

burn.

Six days.

It took his body six days to sink to the bottom. When it softly landed on the ocean floor, and he stirred from his meditative state, he knew what he wanted.

What he needed.

Life. 

Stretching the arms, cracking joints, he began to construct his vision. For an eternity, the dance had always been the same. 

Unparalleled focus. 

A vibrant, grand mass of light. A sun to call their own.

Planets of every color and size, ripe for the discovering. Stars to mystify his children for when they gaze into a midnight sky. 

Satellites to place feet upon.

And finally a home. A home much like his own.

But it all felt different.

Except he had hope for them. These people soon to be. His creation. He hoped that they would break away from his design; it would surely not differ greatly from that of his kin. He hoped that they would be better in some way. Any way.

His voice soothed the black water surrounding him, lulling it to rest.

Focus.

Unparalleled focus. 

He created their ocean. Their green grass. Their trees. The animals, and people.

And he knew them each by name. 

Two turned into three, and three became four. And soon they inhabited his whole world. They lived full lives--each and every one. 

He was invisible to them. And yet they named him. In various tongues, in various symbols, they named him. Some believed strongly. That he would save, that he would punish. Some didn't believe in him at all.

The speed of time quickened. Decades passed by in milliseconds. His tired eyes would blink, and those he had grown to know and love had passed away. 

A muscle would twitch, a finger would move, and hundreds would perish. Thousands. Millions. 

His world was sensitive. Vulnerable. Weak. 

Beautiful. Through the suffering and the joy, through the triumphs and the failures, his creation was absolutely beautiful. 

Their chests would heave as breath--life--filled their small lungs. Eyes looked up into the night, right into his, without even realizing it.

They were selfless. They were honest.

They lied. They stole. They murdered.

But above all else, they were beautiful.

They were no different than he was.

No different.

And it was through all of this that he understood what he had to do.

He had to go back.

To the surface.

To civilization.

He had to look into the midnight sky one last time. 

He had to look into the invisible eyes of his creator and let him know that he understood.

I feel like writing.

I feel like writing a fucking novel. Not an actual novel, but a novel nonetheless. 

"It was her wrists. They were beautiful." I never really understood that line until now.

Why the FUCK will blogger not let me paste things while on a Mac? Why the fuck not, you goddamn asshole?

I could be mean. I could be angry. I could be just like you. 

Sometimes I wish we lived right next to each other. You have no idea how much I need you right now. It's so lonely here, and yet it isn't any different from what I'm used to. I don't know if I could explain it and make it fully comprehensible.

You thought you'd sit inside me. You were only in my way . . .

Starálfur. That's the song. And you know exactly at which part we would, too. Everyone does. I'm sure it's something everyone thinks of. 

Wrist feeling. It's a weird sensation. And sort of doesn't make sense, given my previous explanation. The fuck is wrong with me?

That was the dumbest question I've ever been asked. Ever. Not really, but this is what everyone says whenever they get asked a stupid question. And yes, there are such things as stupid questions. How can you not know off the top of your head? Do I not tell you enough about my life? Do you not have enough insight? For God's sake, you're right here. with me. every day. We're always talking. How can you not know? Do you know how much it hurts that you honestly don't know? Do you ever care? Do you even pay attention? I know you do, I just don't know to what extent . . .

I don't even know how to answer that question. (The question you asked.)

Hello?

Is anyone out there?

. . . No?

Okay . . .