History:::

So I was sorting out all of my stuff (moving house yo~), and I literally have around 50 notebooks  :l 

It's crazy - I used to want to be an author and whatever (maybe I still do somewhere in me, idk), and I tried so hard to be eloquent in English :/. 

I only got my computer in like what... '09/10 (even though it's an old banger lols x] ).

Idk, and I came to the sudden realisation that what - every single bit of of my childhood and teenhood and young adulthood and everything hood was on perishable paper. Soooooo,,,

I tried to start typing everything up. I took photos of them to start with, but that's kinda useless because I couldn't really edit/refine or do anything. So yeah, there I am typing, but I'm lazy, there's so much of it and I don't have time. As in any time now-a-days.

Andd then Jaku walked in on me and was like babes, what are you doing? I explained that I was so confuzzled as to what to do because I can't really type that fast and there was a whirlwind of paper everywhere, and a very confused me who didn't really know what to do. But turns out guys, there's this awesome software stuff that actually recognises handwriting and stuff and puts it on the computer and I bought it today and I'm really happy because there is actually like gold in some of those notebooks.

SOOOOO....

History over, here's the first old piece of fiction I dug up and typed ^,^

I won't be typing anymore when I actually get the software, obvs, but it looks like it's gonna take a week or two to get here, and this is already done so :

Bazingka.

 

 

 

14th March, 2005

 

Hard days and hard lives make hard people and even harder societies.

 

Tractable libertines that want to watch the world burn.

 

It’s a stretch - but most of the assiduous working class eventually get there. To the breaking point. So where is it? ... The point that they begin to break, crumble and return to the dust? It’s hard to judge by looking, and even after months and months of being under scrutiny, even with his almost immediate and universal recognition, people still hadn’t come to the realisation that a young boy at the centre of this story had broken. Into millions of fragile, miniature and impaired pieces.

 

He had found himself in the middle of a crowded pavement. Even though he’d stopped, people automatically assumed that the figure clad in black had a perfectly feasible reason for obstructing the phlegmatic flow - they just avoided him. Nobody could see the tears falling from his eyes; he kept his head down obtaining from engaging conversation. His eyes silently darted left and right, focusing on the cracks in the hard pavement, questioning himself as to why, where and how he put himself in such a tricky situation.

 

The change was instant, and the intrepid him took over the weaker side to his seemingly split personality. The effort to hide the incontrollable jerks was in vain, a few people stopped to stare momentarily, but the ever quickening flow and rush of new persons engulfed the old ones. He was not stopped.

Suddenly, his whole body jerked up, reminding himself as to why he was there. He chuckled silently, placing himself bang in the middle of the sidewalk. The ticking coming from underneath his baggy hoodie was reminding him why. The arabesque symphony of countdowns in his head was reminding him why. The paucity of fairness, democracy and ever increasing partisan agreements screamed at him why. The consequential, feckless government was begging for truculence, remonstration and the middle finger. Rebellion. And he was the key – it was a veritable truth. He needed to be the one to flip that finger because it was the same finger that grew back when they enervated him, willing it to drop off. Maybe they were just the sycophants, but the masses were just as responsible and he felt that they needed to get it. The wrath.

 

Of course the transient idea that it was 'wrong' should have crossed his mind. But it did not, if anything he felt and increasing ardour and pride with the explosion. He looked around the square, smirking as the terrified pilgrims scurried left and right for cover. Laughing at the multifarious welter of citizens, running around like little ants.

Here he was powerful.

And it was about time - life is just a side effect of death. They had it coming.

The taciturn pariah was finally holding his pillory.

Revenge is sweet.

 

 --- Are you cold enough yet?