Contributed By: Fitz
There is something deep within the human object which longs to be remembered. It may come from that acute awareness of mortality we seem to spend so much time entertaining, but there’s no denying the desire to leave ones mark upon the world. But try as we might, the legacy we leave behind is largely outside of our control.
I am reminded of a time back in high school when we were learning about history, and for some reason were told that giant 8 foot tall stone heads were found in the palace of Emperor Constantine. I just couldn’t help imagining an aging emperor rising from his bed to face the duties of his station, taking pause before his giant stone bobble head to rap it upon the chin and ask, “What do you think, should we conquer the world today?”
The harsh reality of the matter was that the savagely competitive world of high end fashion footwear would truly be changed forever by the sudden influx of over the counter pharmaceuticals granting levitation.
On the one hand, the function of the matter was now an afterthought – shoes were little more than gloves now. There was no reason they couldn’t be made into any shape and out of any material, but it did take a while for people to get used to putting on shoes that looked absolutely nothing like shoes. The market eventually split, with the younger generation embracing the strange and wonderful new approaches to footwear, while the old mainstays of boot and sandal drifted slowly into obscurity.
The only saving grace was the fresh batch of annoying culture kids who derived most of their identity by wearing the more ‘traditional’ style shoes ironically.
The night is dark and stormy indeed as the torrential rain lashes against the window, the wicked beating against the roof echoing through the ears of an author scaring himself silly with the unspeakable horrors he writes into the page. The world he creates is a familiar one, but hostile and unforgiving, and with an unsettling sense of isolation and helplessness that permeates the very fabric of its fiction.
He imagines the worst collection of attributes and applies them to the scenario, cherry picking through the things that make his skin crawl and his soul shudder and ache to find the skin-crawlingest, most soul shuddering possibilities of all. Then it is with the craft of his hand and the charm of his pen that he hangs them in the dark corners of the minds of his audience.
The basic concept of which being that the world we know is going to be destroyed in the blink of an eye by the ultra-mega-grand-daddy of all hangovers. Yeah, that’s what we have to look forward to.
Preparation is important. A lot of the time, it’s all just a simple matter of bringing the right tools for the right job; working smarter, not harder. Knowing what you’re up against, having a plan for how you’re going to deal with it, anticipating problems instead of merely reacting to them – in a world of obstacles, these are the keys to freedom.
And sure, all of that sounds plenty noble, but there’s a sad reality behind it all: for every successful evasion of difficulty, be it annoyance or catastrophe, there is an exasperated mess of an experience, rocking back and forth in a corner and whispering to itself with complete conviction.
“That… is never happening again.”
Parties have never made an exceptional amount of sense to me. They are a strange cocktail of friends and acquaintances and strangers wrapped up in arbitrary spaces and activities and then slathered with refreshments and alcohol. Often a rather significant amount of alcohol.
Point is, with a mix of people like this, in an environment like this, conversations are kind of an afterthought. Communication is often stifled by the noise and the movement, the Brownian motion of society, and what little does get through tends to be shallow at best. Because of this, people must rely on other indicators to get to know the person they are meeting.
Poise is a big part of it. It’s all about learning to stand there with enough class and grace so as to appear like a cultured individual. And yeah, it’s about as ridiculous as it sounds.
Growing up in any family is tough enough, but having to deal with a history of performers and celebrities can have a way of making things extra crazy. Even if everyone in the family is completely supportive of alternative life styles or career choices, there will always be a struggle to deal with the external perceptions of what it means to come from such a family.
Some people handle the terrible strain with more grace and poise than others, but it seems to me, with all that external perception at my disposal, that it must be a very difficult task to escape the gravity of those expectations and become your own person. It’s like there are two roads to take: you can do everything in your power to evade public attention, or you can do something so outlandish and exceptional that it forces people to think of you as an individual.
That’s probably where daredevils came from in the first place; they want crazy? I’ll give them crazy.
Contributed By: Unknown Author
The wisdom of giving robots the capacity to experience true human emotion was a question that often found Dr Robert Saiabor at a loss for words. He was no stranger to the machinations of the synthetic soul, having personally contributed a great deal to the progress of artificial intelligence, logistically as well as socially. Hollywood had, with its wealthy pedigree of AI singularity apocalypse stories, done little to bolster public faith in computers beyond their use for- well, computing.
But the good doctor knew too that movements come and movements go, and that no amount of zeal in the world could salvage a concept if it is, at its core, flawed. So he could never help asking himself, had he really helped to liberate this new kind of sentience?
Or had he doomed a new dimension of life to the agonies of the unrequited crush?