Fake Wings

I've been tracking down the .hack//sign osts since Friday and finally began listening to the music again for the first time since before the summer. I recalled the main verse of, "Key of the Twilight," and the melody of, "Fake Wings." The content of, "Fake Wings," "The World," and, "Aura," thus plastered a wry smile across my face this morning as I listened to them on my 15 minute hike to STAT208.

Look:

Shine bright morning light
Now in the air the spring is coming
Sweet blowing wind
Singing down the hills and valleys
Keep your eyes on me
Now we're on the edge of hell
Dear my love, sweet morning light
Wait for me, you've gone much farther, too far

How temporal and unsympathetically symbolic.

I wonder if I ever went too far--if I have, how often I have gone too far? I've felt, a number of times, that I was breaching the very edges of Hell... it is, admittedly, largely a part of my disgustingly poetic mindframe more than true-bearing philosophy, but it is like the .hack//sign soundtrack was specifically written with my future (as I first watched it not long before Semester 6) in mind.

Here is Aura:

if you are near to the dark

I will tell you 'bout the sun

you are here, no escape

from my visions of the world

you will cry all alone

but it does not mean a thing to me



knowing the song I will sing

till the darkness comes to sleep

come to me, I will tell

'bout the secret of the sun

it's in you, not in me

but it does not mean a thing to you



the sun is in your eyes

the sun is in your ears

I hope you see the sun

someday in the darkness



the sun is in your eyes

the sun is in your ears

but you can't see the sun

ever in the darkness

it does not much matter to me

This is entirely personal. If you ever took the time to realize intention in many

of the deeper statements of the writings I read at Good Karma back at the

highschool, you know I took upon myself that my psyche is one draped in

darkness; in a pseudo-demonic stature that isn’t malicious, but never

pretends to be nice. You would also know I claim my “visions of the world”

to be somewhat malevolent—I have often reflected my eyes, and my visions,

lead me to be overwhelmingly unsympathetic in this world because they

trick me with what others seem to state are “disturbing”

pictures all the time.



 It is… maybe creepy how relevant these lyrics are.

It is also confusing that I did not realize the connotation sooner.

Recurring (dreadful honesty)

I can't remember a time I've spent more than 20 minutes with Laura nearby since Freshman Orientation that someone in the vicinity hasn't mentioned Jane. Tonight an additional example. It is almost always harmlessly pressed, but it keeps coming up and it thusly asserts a slow poison to my consciousness.

Everyone from Trash Hall knows by now. If they're missing the connotation or the depth or the timeframe, they still have an idea of the primary idea: through highschool, I was dreadfully in love with Jane. Anyone who has followed for more than a month one of my blogs (though not the livejournal I keep to hear another voice of NIU) knows I have been battling with suppressing that love since I noticed I was leaving highschool. I can only imagine I could be successful if somehow I avoided all mention of her for a longer frame of time than three months--

but avoiding mention means not just avoiding people that might say her name, but also situations in which a similar presence presents itself. This has proven exceedingly impossible. I go maybe a month without hearing a word of her nor noticing the slightest reminder of her, but then I am blasted again with the thought. I have tried, as it ends up feeling more an obsession than an attraction, to escape the thoughts, but I cannot be successful. She is a memory that absolutely refuses to rest without recollection. I don't want to kill, to forever bury, the memory, but I realize how dangerous it is, how unhealthy it is, to spend time thinking about a girl no longer in my life.

This is painful. This is self-destructive, as it was through highschool. Because writing it, telling it, really, like this, it does seem to make more sense, like there is a pattern somewhere, like there is a reason the name or image or memory continues to pop up. Like May 28th wasn't the last time I'll see her. Like she'll reappear, if only I hold on...

and even if I don't hold on. Because through the last seven months, I have let go a number of times. I have let myself fall from my memories of her and I have consistantly landed, it has seemed, immediately where I let go. Two steps forward, one leap back.

It contains me--it entraps me. This bastard thought that maybe I was wrong, that maybe she wasn't so much afraid as not ready, and that maybe she will be ready in a little while, even though the little evidence I have heard should lead me to believe her role was a purposeful tragedy. That, eventually, maybe after I clear world 4 and 5, the real princess will finally appear, and I will be happy. Which begs the question: if she was a fake, a trick, how am I to know when the real woman shows her scene?

And the philosophy of love has been that I can't know. That I am destined to remain miserable until that gallant light ignites my reality and everything is immediately clear. Until then, I am destined to lament of the happiest stretch of months I had in my life: Junior year when I saw and talked to Jane near 5 times a week and made her smile and listened to her respond to whatever we would discuss. For those five months, I went home slowly thinking more and more confidently that she might yet love me. And then my reality crashed and my sanity shattered and my confession was replied with an uneasy and rushed voice that sounded like it expected anything but what I asked.

And I have been bitter.

Women haven't tried showing me better since then. They haven't convinced me that they aren't inherently cruel, that they can commit to ideas that aren't trivial.

This is disgusting. But, right now, this is a truth--until a woman decides to prove otherwise, this is my truth. Women are fearful creatures incapable of maintaining any faith in original creativity. Fifty years from now and I likely will still have not a slightest answer how Jane came to her decision of ignoring me because I loved her.

February is less than 40 hours away--this is right on cue.

Someone tell me.... someone try and give me an answer why I still think about a girl who ignored me, relatively (minding the thrice times I caught her outside of school and walked in front of her eyes), until after Graduation, and then only replied in the company of parties that beyed me from questioning her with concerns that are of immortal importance to my reality.

In short, someone tell me why the girl I fell in love with couldn't even reciprocate the tiniest fraction of, not even love, but /humanity/ for me after I told her I loved her.

Decisions

I need to do at least two loads of laundry by Monday morning--I'm out of clean towels, and very nearly out of clean shirts. But I don't feel like dragging the laundry down from my room... the hour and a half I'd need to spend in the laundry room I can do, but it's the inbetween that I don't much feel like this night.

And, apparently, I have plans around noon tomorrow. Which means I'll try awaking around 10:40 or so, to perhaps get brunch at 11 and be ready to recieve an anticipated call around 12. But I won't have the convenience of being able to stay up til 3am... what now I need to wake up at 6:55am on Monday mornings.

As I write this, I am still processing my decision--whether I'll be productive and do my laundry, or whether I'll be lazy and hope I finish whatever I'm doing leaving enough time to finish English reading plus laundry.

Yesterday I realized I forgot to do my auditory physics homework in time--we need to do it online, turn it in by a specific time as defined on our syllabi, and I completely put it out of my mind until 5 hours after the deadline. So I lose 15 homework points, just like that. In some ways, the advent of technology really is a bitch.

Time is flying by--my weekends and the 11 straight hours of non-obligation on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays (mostly) I find myself with are exceedingly escaping me. Unmemorably, too... it is depressing.

I'll go watch the new Mirrormask trailer again.

After Innocence

"But now I'm thinking about that smile... and I almost want to cry. It was such a beautiful, innocent dream... it is so bloody now. And I still am convinced I can find a way to prove final closure by the end of the year--if I do, it will be a performance of the epitomy of masochism. I want to know why it was that smile that I focused on..."

I wrote that some time last March, the day I finally got to participate in the traditional pre-schooler day in band. I recited a poem I drafted a period or two before, and I demonstrated my capability as well I could. Those memories just don't want to die--the most apt implication I derive from this is I shall remain lonely for a long time, until my name is recognized by a woman, a stranger, I believe I can trust.

About three hours ago, I sent Frigo a first vignette to start illustrating--our second comic has him doing all the art and me doing all the writing, but how I'm setting it up we both are largely collaborating to create a unique character. It is set to focus on a sociopathic (I think that's the word of the night--I've used it probably a dozen times since this morning) boy in a city envisioning a number of the vignettes I've written since early Senior year. I told Frigo to draw mixing surreal imagery with the reality that actually exists beyond this child's fantastic mind. I don't know where this child is going to go yet--but if my first indication, how I've been imagining it since I passed the idea of giving Scott some vignettes to illustrate, this child is going to enlighten his society.

Other things of note: I played the Darwinia demo after finishing with classes around 12:30 and watched Spider Man 2. Not an entirely impressive day, but things, I suppose, are beginning to be afoot.

Transitions, part 2

I spent the last half hour copying and pasting every entry I made on my xanga account into Dreamweaver, splitting pages by month and creating a link-table for easy navigation between. So, this blog has now 350+ pages of posts in archive--though not conventional blogger archive.

Thus I shall tonight begin posting my thoughts, my rambles, my philosophies that I wish to share with the world here, harder to find, instead of on the xanga I've been updating for 713 days.

I need to get some dinner before the cafeterias close early as they do on Fridays...

Transitions

The last time I had a dragonfort account, blogging was in infancy--supersites like xanga and livejournal just felt more natural. So I started on xanga February, 2003, and have been posting just about every night since.

But we all grow up and grow out--and xanga offers not half the professionalism of keeping a blog on a server with which I have ftp access. Thus, I begin my transition, about 99 weeks after I started on xanga.

My 350+ pages of xanga archives will eventually be archived somewhere on http://rohsiph.dragonfort.net perhaps linked close to this blog.