[Journal Entry - (mostly) Private]
Entry number 7000029165...or something. I admit I've lost count; too curious to let it go, but too lazy to actually count them, a quandary if ever I heard one. It doesn't matter. Days pass, the number grows. Suffice to say this is far from the first, and the last is likely far off as well, provided this old body of mine holds up.
"Old body". A joke if ever I heard one. Older than it was - and there's a strange feeling after lifetimes upon lifetimes without - but still young, still vital. I admit I half expected to crumble to dust the moment I walked through the Portal, with all the stories of Mortality circulating, but here I am, still walking, breathing, like all the rest. Well. Not quite like all the rest, perhaps, the Powers Above have evidently seen fit to gift a quirk like they have to all the rest of the...Creations? Is that what we've taken to calling ourselves? Creation: an artifact that has been brought into existence by someone. But isn't everyone, when you get down to it? Creation and Human alike, animal, vegetable, mineral and everything in between, tangible and intangible. A bit vague of a label to be calling us all, don't you think?
But anyway. There was a purpose for this, after all, I did mean to actually talk about something other than bad jokes and banality.
This, for instance. This whole...on-line thing, blogging. Typing words on a screen and posting them, making them visible to the entire world in less than a second. Convenience and downfall all rolled into one, one big deceptive jackpot everyone on the planet is clamoring for. Eagerly, no less. Don't get me wrong, I can see the appeal; it's a sight easier than writing it all down, easier to change the bits you don't like in favour of something a bit more...palatable, perhaps. Favourable. But therein lies the problem. The faults of history compounded into one simple fact. People don't like to make themselves look bad. They hide what they don't want their friends, family, schoolmates, co-workers, neighbours, to know, exchange the truth for a lie and pass it off as fact.
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good lie the same as anyone else and more than some, and history itself is nothing but a collection of lies groomed to paint the ones writing the stories in a good light If you need evidence, look no further than those determined to believe the Holocaust never happened, that it's all some huge government conspiracy. Trust me, I was there, I saw the papers. It happened. ...By "there" I mean London, the front lines are for cannon fodder and idealistic fools, thank you very much, but I was still close enough to catch the stink of it when the wind was right and smart enough to go to ground when the city started to get blown to pieces in the name of Purification. As if thousands of other people hadn't already had that brilliant idea before; it's really not as original as you people all seem to think. So yes, I get it, I understand the need to gloss over your little infidelities, your compulsions, whatever dirty little secrets you have. But someone else always has the other side of the story. The uncensored version. The one they show late at night when they don't have to worry about little children who should be in bed seeing or hearing something they shouldn't. And they're more than happy to spread the word, whether you want them to or not. So keep that in mind when you say "no, of course I didn't break the vase" or "it couldn't have been me that killed that guy, I was out of town", or whatever else you try to pass off as truth.
We all know you're lying anyway.
----------------------------------------
And now for the more boring part:
Mrs O'Malley is sooo mean, she tried to blame me for that stolen-
Oh, wait. I'm sorry, that goes in the earlier part of the entry, doesn't it? So sorry. Although, just think. That's the one I did put in. Imagine all the other secrets I could have heard, a lot jucier than a twelve year old with a klepto streak. If these walls could talk...
Anyway. Nothing new today. World's going to shit still, Seattle's Finest don't seem to be helping matters much, and I'm bored out of my skull. Wish I had more to share, really, but such is the account of history; vast wastelands of boredom punctuated by brief flashes of excitement. You can always hope for tomorrow.
"Old body". A joke if ever I heard one. Older than it was - and there's a strange feeling after lifetimes upon lifetimes without - but still young, still vital. I admit I half expected to crumble to dust the moment I walked through the Portal, with all the stories of Mortality circulating, but here I am, still walking, breathing, like all the rest. Well. Not quite like all the rest, perhaps, the Powers Above have evidently seen fit to gift a quirk like they have to all the rest of the...Creations? Is that what we've taken to calling ourselves? Creation: an artifact that has been brought into existence by someone. But isn't everyone, when you get down to it? Creation and Human alike, animal, vegetable, mineral and everything in between, tangible and intangible. A bit vague of a label to be calling us all, don't you think?
But anyway. There was a purpose for this, after all, I did mean to actually talk about something other than bad jokes and banality.
This, for instance. This whole...on-line thing, blogging. Typing words on a screen and posting them, making them visible to the entire world in less than a second. Convenience and downfall all rolled into one, one big deceptive jackpot everyone on the planet is clamoring for. Eagerly, no less. Don't get me wrong, I can see the appeal; it's a sight easier than writing it all down, easier to change the bits you don't like in favour of something a bit more...palatable, perhaps. Favourable. But therein lies the problem. The faults of history compounded into one simple fact. People don't like to make themselves look bad. They hide what they don't want their friends, family, schoolmates, co-workers, neighbours, to know, exchange the truth for a lie and pass it off as fact.
Don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good lie the same as anyone else and more than some, and history itself is nothing but a collection of lies groomed to paint the ones writing the stories in a good light If you need evidence, look no further than those determined to believe the Holocaust never happened, that it's all some huge government conspiracy. Trust me, I was there, I saw the papers. It happened. ...By "there" I mean London, the front lines are for cannon fodder and idealistic fools, thank you very much, but I was still close enough to catch the stink of it when the wind was right and smart enough to go to ground when the city started to get blown to pieces in the name of Purification. As if thousands of other people hadn't already had that brilliant idea before; it's really not as original as you people all seem to think. So yes, I get it, I understand the need to gloss over your little infidelities, your compulsions, whatever dirty little secrets you have. But someone else always has the other side of the story. The uncensored version. The one they show late at night when they don't have to worry about little children who should be in bed seeing or hearing something they shouldn't. And they're more than happy to spread the word, whether you want them to or not. So keep that in mind when you say "no, of course I didn't break the vase" or "it couldn't have been me that killed that guy, I was out of town", or whatever else you try to pass off as truth.
We all know you're lying anyway.
----------------------------------------
And now for the more boring part:
Mrs O'Malley is sooo mean, she tried to blame me for that stolen-
Oh, wait. I'm sorry, that goes in the earlier part of the entry, doesn't it? So sorry. Although, just think. That's the one I did put in. Imagine all the other secrets I could have heard, a lot jucier than a twelve year old with a klepto streak. If these walls could talk...
Anyway. Nothing new today. World's going to shit still, Seattle's Finest don't seem to be helping matters much, and I'm bored out of my skull. Wish I had more to share, really, but such is the account of history; vast wastelands of boredom punctuated by brief flashes of excitement. You can always hope for tomorrow.
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