Before long, I am walking through the cold desert, carrying my newfound treasure. Nothing else resembles that of reality, except myself and my companion. Just miles and miles of sand. Fuck I used to love beaches.
I cant tell how long I've been walking, or how long I've been reading. I'm reading as I walk, or when I stop to rest from the walking. Wait I can't even get a hold of the sense of time. I can't tell time. What the fuck is going on ?
I'm sitting down reading again in the calm desert.
I read the book as I wade through a strong storm.
I'm drifting.
Shit I'm talking like a fucktard.
The next series of entries are a jumbled mess. I'm just reading through. It's the only thing I can do to keep myself sane in this... this... oh fuckit I'll just read.
Showing posts with label The Waking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Waking. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
The Waking: A strange book
The first journal entry is a very interesting read. I never knew myself as a person who enjoys reading diaries much. I always hated to see others in their own shoes. But anything that will keep my sane from this accursed place.
Bloody hell I still can't figure out where the fuck I am. The wind blows strongly still preventing me from seeing ahead. Still, I see a large lone jagged rock, jutting out from the surface. Perhaps I should run there for shelter.
The rock is quite far away so I start to flip through the next page of the journal. It seems to be an entry by someone else. The writing is much more curvy and has letters connecting together. Like a calligraphy, but not quite. I don't know what they call it, but I'm sure the writer really takes his time in putting his thoughts into his journal. As if to have others read it someday. Not like the previous entry where the strokes were harsh and bold. It shows the expressions and emotions in the writing.
But enough of that. Let's see what this fucker is on about.
Bloody hell I still can't figure out where the fuck I am. The wind blows strongly still preventing me from seeing ahead. Still, I see a large lone jagged rock, jutting out from the surface. Perhaps I should run there for shelter.
The rock is quite far away so I start to flip through the next page of the journal. It seems to be an entry by someone else. The writing is much more curvy and has letters connecting together. Like a calligraphy, but not quite. I don't know what they call it, but I'm sure the writer really takes his time in putting his thoughts into his journal. As if to have others read it someday. Not like the previous entry where the strokes were harsh and bold. It shows the expressions and emotions in the writing.
But enough of that. Let's see what this fucker is on about.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
The Waking
Silence.
Complete utter silence.
And then, a monotonous ringing is heard, accompanying my consciousness, or rather, reminding me the i have one.
I start to breathe. Inhale, then exhale.
Slowly my senses start to kick in. First the ringing dissipates, into something deeper, a long howling banshee sound, like that of a wind.
I feel my hands, my fingers. They tell me of something uncomfortable beneath. Around. Everywhere. I can feel my organs inside, wrapped around a thin layer of skin. Skin irritation comes with the howling sound. It feels like small little ice particles pricking on my face. maybe that's what it is.
Squint, because that's what we do before we open our eyes. We squint first to make sure our eyes are in place. I squint and feel knives stabbing my eyes. Moments later the pain is bearable and I slowly open my lids.
Something hard jabs at my tear ducts. I flick it off with my finger. A sand particle. It should be normal for people coming up from sleep, except mine is real sand. No wait, there's more. In fact, it's all around me.
As the blurry white slowly melts into shapes, I now see myself lying on a dune sea, with the winds howling, throwing more sand around on my face.
Is this real?
Am I Real?
Fuck, my chest hurts. I guess that's real. Is that my lungs, oww damn. My heart's beating fast, painfully fast. Well now I know Im alive, or at least I feel a live.
Where the hell am I? What am I? As I stand up amidst the chaos sands, I know one thing's for sure. I'm alone, for nothing else resembles that of life, or what I make of life, for miles away.
I start to walk, slowly, painfully. God damn shoes would be a great idea.
Time flows through almost like a stream, almost non existent. I don't remember how long I walk, was it 5 minutes or 5 years? A million questions and thoughts run through my already heavy head. I don't know if it's the thoughts that's giving me this bloody headache or the rough sand storm.
I keep thinking and keep walking and keep wondering and SHIT OW FUCK!!
My toe, my god damn fucking toe. Stupid fucking rectangular rock. Wait, what the hell.
A book. What the hell is it... oh fuck it. As I brush the sand off the cover, I recognize a logo, that of a broken hourglass. Let's see what's inside.
Writings... Pages upon pages of different handwritings. They seem to be telling a story, a journal perhaps. Yeah that's what it is. A journal, with a broken hourglass, and handwritings of different people.
Hmm... perhaps I should read one entry. It's not like I have anything better to do anyway.
The first entry seems rough and hard, the pages almost tearing a part. Still, it seems pretty well written.
Complete utter silence.
And then, a monotonous ringing is heard, accompanying my consciousness, or rather, reminding me the i have one.
I start to breathe. Inhale, then exhale.
Slowly my senses start to kick in. First the ringing dissipates, into something deeper, a long howling banshee sound, like that of a wind.
I feel my hands, my fingers. They tell me of something uncomfortable beneath. Around. Everywhere. I can feel my organs inside, wrapped around a thin layer of skin. Skin irritation comes with the howling sound. It feels like small little ice particles pricking on my face. maybe that's what it is.
Squint, because that's what we do before we open our eyes. We squint first to make sure our eyes are in place. I squint and feel knives stabbing my eyes. Moments later the pain is bearable and I slowly open my lids.
Something hard jabs at my tear ducts. I flick it off with my finger. A sand particle. It should be normal for people coming up from sleep, except mine is real sand. No wait, there's more. In fact, it's all around me.
As the blurry white slowly melts into shapes, I now see myself lying on a dune sea, with the winds howling, throwing more sand around on my face.
Is this real?
Am I Real?
Fuck, my chest hurts. I guess that's real. Is that my lungs, oww damn. My heart's beating fast, painfully fast. Well now I know Im alive, or at least I feel a live.
Where the hell am I? What am I? As I stand up amidst the chaos sands, I know one thing's for sure. I'm alone, for nothing else resembles that of life, or what I make of life, for miles away.
I start to walk, slowly, painfully. God damn shoes would be a great idea.
Time flows through almost like a stream, almost non existent. I don't remember how long I walk, was it 5 minutes or 5 years? A million questions and thoughts run through my already heavy head. I don't know if it's the thoughts that's giving me this bloody headache or the rough sand storm.
I keep thinking and keep walking and keep wondering and SHIT OW FUCK!!
My toe, my god damn fucking toe. Stupid fucking rectangular rock. Wait, what the hell.
A book. What the hell is it... oh fuck it. As I brush the sand off the cover, I recognize a logo, that of a broken hourglass. Let's see what's inside.
Writings... Pages upon pages of different handwritings. They seem to be telling a story, a journal perhaps. Yeah that's what it is. A journal, with a broken hourglass, and handwritings of different people.
Hmm... perhaps I should read one entry. It's not like I have anything better to do anyway.
The first entry seems rough and hard, the pages almost tearing a part. Still, it seems pretty well written.
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