it's pretty relaxing, writing on your own time
Lucidity (Click to Show)
I was dreaming.
At least it felt like it. I don't know how I got on this rooftop, but I was there. I had total control over my senses. "Lucid dream," I confirmed to myself. Every possible activity attacked my conscious. Conjure up an attractive girl and engage in a sloppy make-out session. Imagine dozens of furry creatures to play with. Think of people I don't like all too well and do unpleasant things to them. Endless possibilities. The perfect idea hit me then: flight. For some reason I always admired the ability to fly over any other superpower. Super speed? Too weak. Strength? Too violent. Reading minds? Too loud. Flight, though, was different. The ability to be all alone in the bright blue sky, with nothing else but the birds, clouds, and warm sun to keep you company is something to die for. Solitude. “I’m going to fly,” I told myself.
As I stepped onto the ledge, the sun beat down on my face. Being this high up created a pleasant mixture of the temperature; the draft of the higher altitude combined with the brisk warmth of the sun felt blissful. Paradise shone down on that ledge. Chills ran through my body like dull needles entrapping my body. But I didn’t get this far in my lucid dream to enjoy the weather: I wanted to fly. Pushing away the soft embrace of the sun and wind, I stepped off the ledge, into the open arms of the sky. Eyes closed, the sky became my guide, like a blind man and his dog. My body plowing through the consistently weak, yet forceful barriers of wind filled my being with this sense of power – freedom, rather.
Felt like I was flying for an eternity. Couldn’t tell, with dream time being obtuse and everything. I wanted to open my eyes, but I figured I’d enjoy this moment for a bit. It’s not everyday you get to enjoy a lucid dream. To exercise control in an abstract reality that’s completely your own. To be alone with your thoughts, at ease. To be infinite in a space that’s frozen, even if only for a few seconds. I felt relevant. For some reason, I couldn’t stop smiling. Kept my eyes closed too. This was one hell of a dream. The funny thing was, I never woke up when I hit the ground.
At least it felt like it. I don't know how I got on this rooftop, but I was there. I had total control over my senses. "Lucid dream," I confirmed to myself. Every possible activity attacked my conscious. Conjure up an attractive girl and engage in a sloppy make-out session. Imagine dozens of furry creatures to play with. Think of people I don't like all too well and do unpleasant things to them. Endless possibilities. The perfect idea hit me then: flight. For some reason I always admired the ability to fly over any other superpower. Super speed? Too weak. Strength? Too violent. Reading minds? Too loud. Flight, though, was different. The ability to be all alone in the bright blue sky, with nothing else but the birds, clouds, and warm sun to keep you company is something to die for. Solitude. “I’m going to fly,” I told myself.
As I stepped onto the ledge, the sun beat down on my face. Being this high up created a pleasant mixture of the temperature; the draft of the higher altitude combined with the brisk warmth of the sun felt blissful. Paradise shone down on that ledge. Chills ran through my body like dull needles entrapping my body. But I didn’t get this far in my lucid dream to enjoy the weather: I wanted to fly. Pushing away the soft embrace of the sun and wind, I stepped off the ledge, into the open arms of the sky. Eyes closed, the sky became my guide, like a blind man and his dog. My body plowing through the consistently weak, yet forceful barriers of wind filled my being with this sense of power – freedom, rather.
Felt like I was flying for an eternity. Couldn’t tell, with dream time being obtuse and everything. I wanted to open my eyes, but I figured I’d enjoy this moment for a bit. It’s not everyday you get to enjoy a lucid dream. To exercise control in an abstract reality that’s completely your own. To be alone with your thoughts, at ease. To be infinite in a space that’s frozen, even if only for a few seconds. I felt relevant. For some reason, I couldn’t stop smiling. Kept my eyes closed too. This was one hell of a dream. The funny thing was, I never woke up when I hit the ground.
Recall (Click to Show)
Funerals are always awkward if the dearly deceased isn't someone you particularly know too well. It's especially awkward if the unknown is a family member.
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Awkward was exactly what Walcott felt that grey Sunday afternoon at his grandfather's funeral. Everyone else's faces were swollen, sullen, and on the verge of tears, like the sky. Then there was Walcott. A handsome young man with a stern, quiet, but not quite sad, look. A dead stone among living scenery. Walcott was focusing more intently on the thoughts he had in his mind instead of the procession in front of his eyes. Thoughts about who his grandfather was, and how he influenced him. Memories that resonated weakly with who his grandfather actually was. Ideas that were guesses at his personality more than anything. But Walcott insisted that he knew his grandfather, and that he loved him. It's not like he wasn't around -- Walcott's family had evening suppers every Sunday. Oh, the suppers! That's how Walcott started to remember. He exhaled a disguised sigh of relief. "Of course I knew him," he thought.
About 10 minutes passed after his brief inner crisis subsided. After being bored with the droning of the priest, his attention wandered to the grey sheet of potent clouds above him. He regret not bringing an umbrella, for the clouds look ready to burst. Shifting again, his focus moved to the other folks in the crowd. He barely recognized the 3/4ths that weren't family. Scoffing, he insisted to himself that he knew his grandfather, not these people. They didn't deserve to be sad. He began recalling the dinners to himself, attempting to prove his point. Walcott started with the stories his grandfather told after dinner: how could he forget them? They were the same old tired stories he told constantly. There was one he told the most, about this one time while he was a tire salesman. Walcott's grandfather managed to sell a guy a whole set of tires, and the guy only wanted a replacement. By the end of their discussion, the guy was so frazzled he paid him 200 extra dollars by mistake in a rush to get him out of his face. The kicker was, Walcott's grandfather pocketed the money and hoped he'd never hear from the guy again. Wasn't really much of a kicker the first time he told it, nor the several hundred times later. But Walcott figured that he couldn’t just ignore his grandfather, so he listened while the rest of his family dismissed him.
Thinking about it, Walcott figured he almost forgot about the suppers because of how boring they were. But he didn't want to feel awful, and immediately tried to get to know his grandfather as an exciting man. His face had evolved from strong sternness to deep concentration and frustration, like the weather. The people around him assumed that he was becoming increasingly agitated at the thought of his beloved grandfather passing, and softly pat Walcott’s shoulders to calm him down. As the soft rumbling grew in the distance, Walcott found a reason to belive his grandfather wasn’t such a bad fellow after all: money. Now while he wasn’t loaded by any means, he was well off. Enough so that he could give his grandson at least 20 bucks after every supper. He only forgot because his grandfather couldn’t make it to any recent suppers, and Walcott didn’t fancy the idea of spending his Sundays at a nursing home. Warmth began to generate in Walcott’s chest as he grew increasingly giddy at his accomplishment. His grandfather was a boring man, but a great bank. By the time he knew his grandfather, most of the crowd had started their way back home to beat the rain while it was still lightly drizzling. It was only him and a middle aged woman around his grandfather’s grave. As he was about to make his way to his car, the woman called to him, asking, “You’re Walcott, aren’t you?” He nodded back.
“I was your grandfather’s caretaker. He was such a sweet old man. Never stopped talking about you, ya know.” She continued, “oh yeah, talked about you every chance he could get if he wasn’t talking about tires. Said he loved you the best out of all his grandchildren, and hell, went as far as to say a lot more respectable than his own children. Described you as such a involved young fella, thinking long and hard about everything. He was right, I could see your gears working during that entire thing,” she chuckled. He opened his mouth to reply to the compliments, but the caretaker still went on. “He told me that you were the only person in the family that listened to him, and he loved you so dearly for that. Although you were too swamped to see him off in his last days, I’m sure he was happy enough knowing that he mattered to someone still.” Walcott regarded the caretaker’s statements with a soft chuckle, and the caretaker shook his hand. As she scurried to her car, the drizzle escalated to a heavy downpour. The clouds had finally let loose their burden onto the ground below, streaming down Walcott’s face as he stood, planted. The raindrops that trickled down into his mouth had an odd taste of salt.
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Awkward was exactly what Walcott felt that grey Sunday afternoon at his grandfather's funeral. Everyone else's faces were swollen, sullen, and on the verge of tears, like the sky. Then there was Walcott. A handsome young man with a stern, quiet, but not quite sad, look. A dead stone among living scenery. Walcott was focusing more intently on the thoughts he had in his mind instead of the procession in front of his eyes. Thoughts about who his grandfather was, and how he influenced him. Memories that resonated weakly with who his grandfather actually was. Ideas that were guesses at his personality more than anything. But Walcott insisted that he knew his grandfather, and that he loved him. It's not like he wasn't around -- Walcott's family had evening suppers every Sunday. Oh, the suppers! That's how Walcott started to remember. He exhaled a disguised sigh of relief. "Of course I knew him," he thought.
About 10 minutes passed after his brief inner crisis subsided. After being bored with the droning of the priest, his attention wandered to the grey sheet of potent clouds above him. He regret not bringing an umbrella, for the clouds look ready to burst. Shifting again, his focus moved to the other folks in the crowd. He barely recognized the 3/4ths that weren't family. Scoffing, he insisted to himself that he knew his grandfather, not these people. They didn't deserve to be sad. He began recalling the dinners to himself, attempting to prove his point. Walcott started with the stories his grandfather told after dinner: how could he forget them? They were the same old tired stories he told constantly. There was one he told the most, about this one time while he was a tire salesman. Walcott's grandfather managed to sell a guy a whole set of tires, and the guy only wanted a replacement. By the end of their discussion, the guy was so frazzled he paid him 200 extra dollars by mistake in a rush to get him out of his face. The kicker was, Walcott's grandfather pocketed the money and hoped he'd never hear from the guy again. Wasn't really much of a kicker the first time he told it, nor the several hundred times later. But Walcott figured that he couldn’t just ignore his grandfather, so he listened while the rest of his family dismissed him.
Thinking about it, Walcott figured he almost forgot about the suppers because of how boring they were. But he didn't want to feel awful, and immediately tried to get to know his grandfather as an exciting man. His face had evolved from strong sternness to deep concentration and frustration, like the weather. The people around him assumed that he was becoming increasingly agitated at the thought of his beloved grandfather passing, and softly pat Walcott’s shoulders to calm him down. As the soft rumbling grew in the distance, Walcott found a reason to belive his grandfather wasn’t such a bad fellow after all: money. Now while he wasn’t loaded by any means, he was well off. Enough so that he could give his grandson at least 20 bucks after every supper. He only forgot because his grandfather couldn’t make it to any recent suppers, and Walcott didn’t fancy the idea of spending his Sundays at a nursing home. Warmth began to generate in Walcott’s chest as he grew increasingly giddy at his accomplishment. His grandfather was a boring man, but a great bank. By the time he knew his grandfather, most of the crowd had started their way back home to beat the rain while it was still lightly drizzling. It was only him and a middle aged woman around his grandfather’s grave. As he was about to make his way to his car, the woman called to him, asking, “You’re Walcott, aren’t you?” He nodded back.
“I was your grandfather’s caretaker. He was such a sweet old man. Never stopped talking about you, ya know.” She continued, “oh yeah, talked about you every chance he could get if he wasn’t talking about tires. Said he loved you the best out of all his grandchildren, and hell, went as far as to say a lot more respectable than his own children. Described you as such a involved young fella, thinking long and hard about everything. He was right, I could see your gears working during that entire thing,” she chuckled. He opened his mouth to reply to the compliments, but the caretaker still went on. “He told me that you were the only person in the family that listened to him, and he loved you so dearly for that. Although you were too swamped to see him off in his last days, I’m sure he was happy enough knowing that he mattered to someone still.” Walcott regarded the caretaker’s statements with a soft chuckle, and the caretaker shook his hand. As she scurried to her car, the drizzle escalated to a heavy downpour. The clouds had finally let loose their burden onto the ground below, streaming down Walcott’s face as he stood, planted. The raindrops that trickled down into his mouth had an odd taste of salt.
and that's what i waste my free time on (so far)