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TIM85
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Name: Richie
Location: Lansdale, Pennsylvania
Birthday: 6/5/1985
Interests: Playing piano, music and movies as art, Magic: The Gathering, video games, board games, philosophy and logic, poetry, acting, selfless love, change, enlightenment.
Message: message meEmail: email me
Member Since:
3/4/2002
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| a recent excellent creation in the family of "interactive art" aka "art games" aka "pretentious nerd crap":
http://www.molleindustria.org/everydaythesamedream/everydaythesamedream.html
My explanation of the message (SPOILER): He has done everything he can think of to break out of his monotonous life--but to no avail, and so he tries one last thing. He kills himself. Then he wakes up in his room again, and the world is empty. This is a metaphor (call it hell if that's what you're into) for the fact that by killing himself he has made the world disappear. And so in that sense, he has succeeded by ending the repetition, but he has ultimately failed because instead of replacing it with a new, different life, he replaced it with nothing. Now the only eternal constant, as symbolized by his final self-encounter on the roof, is his suicide, a fact locked in time which cannot be changed and whose consequences cannot be reversed. | | |
| The cars passing outside threw sand on his window. It scraped down over the glass, hanging and digging in. The airplane broadcast low, rumbling signal waves, the peaks of some flattening the valleys of others, leaving a dirty tarp. Invisible knife-wielding serial killers marched out of every red glow of Christmas lights. More cars and more sand. The rain took the cigarette from the rocking chair and tossed it frustratedly onto the brittle wooden planks of the back porch. Gangs of wild deer kept clip-clopping down the road, looking for more lights to freeze in front of. Then the snow came, flapping down like the wings of a great bird lashed to heavy rugs. Waiting for the melt just made more come. More cars, and now the sand was seeping into his bedroom and into his shoes and pockets. He just kept looking for his watch.
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| "I just--I just don't even want to be doing this, sitting here, doing nothing."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, okay, we're sitting here talking about this and that we don't like about our lives, but... It just feels so lame; I mean, if we don't like-- If I don't like my life, if I want something to change in my life, then I should just change it."
"Well, yeah, I mean, I agree with you. I completely agree with that."
"But?"
He inhaled. "Easier said than done."
"Well, heh, yeah, I guess... but, heh, it's easier to say 'easier said than done' than to... do what... you say."
"Uh..."
"Shut up, I just mean that maybe it's just a cop-out to... let things be 'too difficult' and not actually push ourselves to do them."
"Eh, yeah, I just... My brother died three years ago, and I still... I want to get over it; I want so bad to figure out how to really come to terms with it. But it just feels--" sighing heavily, "I still can't get it to not make me feel guilty. I don't want to push him out. I don't want to forget him. It's still even hard for me to... talk about it, like it just feels wrong. The whole goddamn thing feels completely wrong and impossible and irreconcilable."
She stared at him soberly.
"Some things are just shit. Some things just fucking suck and there's no goddamn thing you can do about them. And maybe the only way to be completely honest and healthy or whatever about it is to acknowledge that disgusting truth, that shit is shit."
She rubbed the side of her face, almost scraping. "There has to be some way to be happy, though."
"Yeah, I know. I know."
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| He pushed on his own eyes, on his closed eyelids, trying to push out what he didn't want. He knew it wouldn't work, but it gave him something to do. "Fuck me. Now. On this table. I'm serious, and if you're not into it, speak now, before I sweep all this useless junk off onto the floor with one passionate swipe of my arm." Completely deadpan.
"Shut up."
"What, no? Oh, well sorry. I guess I'm not man enough for you." What was this weird stuff between his fingers? He picked at it, sort of trying to get it off.
"I was just thinking about Christine the other day."
"But did you realize I've never seen you naked?"
Pause, stare. "Uh, yes, I guess I realize that. Is that a problem?"
"Well, ...I'm just saying I've never seen you naked. Isn't that--..."
"Isn't... it...? So yeah, I was talking to her and she was saying-- We were talking about the way the school just sort of operates as this business that-- I don't want to say that it's, you know, heartless or sinister or whatever... but I think we all have this sort of over-...romanticized... view of... what school... is to us."
"Yeah."
"Are you even--" flash, "Are you picturing me naked?!"
Laughter erupted. "Oh yeah, gimme them sweet titties,"
"Oh my god. Oh, my god."
"them sweet sweet jumbly bumblies."
She shook her head. "I should be much more offended than what--than what my reaction apparently is right now."
"You should be horribly offended by my existence in general. I am."
"Yeah, well, good, why don't you go hang yourself then. I'd pay to see that. I'd be in the front row with popcorn, baby."
"Isn't that a line from an Alanis Morissette song?"
"My life is an Alanis Morissette song."
"Oh, isn't that ironic."
She ran her hand through her hair, tugging and grasping. No weird stuff between her fingers, but she wished.
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| "Fortress of Solitude." He intoned the words like a fasting monk.
"See, I just don't know how you can even--" glance away, smile, "I mean, it's--...You could keep the door open."
"Heh. Yes, I could. I could keep the door open. I could just leave it open and...let all their--let all their evil energy draft in," stiffening, lips stretching, "freezing my very bones to their fucking core." He shook his fists, sarcastically cursing the heavens or hell or earth.
"Well, aren't we Mr. Dramatification."
"Yeah, well," abruptly exasperated, "I AM a Theater major."
"So, Fortress of Solitude."
"Fortress. Of. Solitude."
She shut the door.
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