"'Truth is strange," you know, "stranger than fiction' - besides being more to the point" - Edgar Allan Poe

December 29, 2004

Piffle Paffle ( Or, Stop the world and I'll get off)

"In the beginning, the universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry, and is generally considered to have been a bad move."
Douglas Adams, The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy

A recollection of memory
Look around you. Each object, be it animate or not, is linked to a piece of memory locked away in your head. If you're asked to remember details about it (say, a book), visions pop up of how the pages feel, what fontface is used, avg size of a paragraph, and so on. Each memory seems perfectly normal, and each quite easily accessed from our mental library.
How'd it get there?
I'm not talking about academic details. I'm talking about the stuff we don't choose to remember, like the dogeared sections of a book, the way modem lights blink, the tiny imperfection in your tshirt print... so on. And yet they seem perfectly natural, just like remembering E=mcsquared. Darned if we'll ever figure it out.
Why can't we define what stuff does get stored? What stupid subconscious process says that that I should rather remember the exact details of the mole on my teacher's face, instead of millions of formulae that plug away at my irritability? Why do I remember getting hit by a bike and the pain that lasted for days after that, instead of the guilt that overwhelms me everytime I take another drag? Why do I forget saying "Never again", until I break that very promise and go into invective mode, screaming at my lack of will?
Dammit, this human body has me confounded. Must seek another step of evolution to get these questions answered.

I think, therefore I am... quite lonely
Lately I've felt depressed at what I've become. Being an egoist was cool in the beginning, but now I feel pity at missing the more primitive measures in life. And after a while, they're all primitive. Think about it, when was the last time you saw a braggart being honestly happy/satisfied/amazed at something not related to him? And I don't mean sadistic or sarcastic pleasure here.

Personal thoughts I'm ashamed of-
-No person is good enough to be my friend.
-All pursuit of artistic freedom is a waste of time.
-Every short story written is cliched; I'm sure I could have done a better job of it.
-Music? You mean the commercial crap they play on tv nowadays?
-Yeah, that couple will break up soon enough. (This falls under professional jealousy as well)

Currently reading - The complete works of Edgar Allan Poe (again!)
On Winamp - The essential Lynyrd Skynyrd
Feeling - Cranky