remember

you are not the blogs you read

i am not the facts i barf

you are NOT the funnies you post

intentionality

intentionality is not the end of analysis.

but harder to remember is that my own intentionality should not be the end of analysing others' perception of my actions.

remembering hollow hope or infinite stupidity

He just stood there with that small package in his hand, his mind hurriedly revising the lines he had planned, the expression he wanted to wear for the countless responses he had considered.

I had explained to him how self-centered he is, to include not something about you, but just himself.

He just answers with things like; the world for me is seen through the mirror of my mind. So to say things about you, he just needs to construct a collage of scribbles in his drawer.

I tell him to be humorous, try something fun. He just looks around and continues. I told him to apologize; well this time, he did not. He just went ahead punching the soft keys of his beloved little machine, glancing periodically, in a very business like matter on the scraps of paper he'd pulled out of his 'drawer'. Well it’s been long since we've seen them.

I told him to forget it. He said there must be some place, and someone to appreciate those who cannot walk from one room to another, as they pick up a book. They stop while doing something, to eat instead, or are never on time for dinner, cause they realized that the song playing was worth completing.

wane

Revisiting moments he had been alive, he started to move with a childish spring in his step, quickening his pace. He moved in a sprint feeling the air gently kneading his hair. Taking the final step with a strong push he looked down bliss filled down the long fall. He gave a loud shout of freedom expressing clearly his ideas on life he had lived here, on earth.

Feeling proud, victorious he waited for the concrete. The world around disintegrated slowly and blew away like a handful of dust.

He kept falling into an endless space, the building, ground, the sun; everything had given way to a gigantic hollow.

He heard no sound yet longed for silence; he felt no pain still he hoped that the torture would end. Nothing changed; time had stopped to mock him as the desire for the final impact grew within him. It was not meant to be so, not until he accepted things, not unless he fought back and did more than hope

standing there

I stand here trying to contemplate the past, things happened the way they did because I am in here trying to figure out why. I had always felt the need to move along the world into the future.

I have interests in Computer Networks, Artificial Life, and International Politics. Addicted to Heavy Metal Music I have grown on Metallica, Iron Maiden, and Black Sabbath for the past 3 years. Instrumentals such as Joe Satriani, Paco de Lucia, and Eric Johnson give me reasons to live and die. I shout a lot (cotton will be handy, if you meet me), but really don’t mean to hurt people much. I despise studying course related material. I really do not know myself much and rely heavily on friends and family for debugging required in life.

I have always searched for the substance of ‘me’ among the so-similar self-organizing neural net-based billions of humans.

In dreams I see myself taking an imperative stance directing the flow of life.

Apprehensive but glad to be here; I try to share, distance myself from the ‘self’ as I search for the reason for being me. Hoping to be understood, I let the insides flow out into words that seldom make sense to any but me. Trying to free myself from the crutches of an ambiguous helplessness I want to learn, to educate myself into being useful for at least one life.

Along with a friend I had looked at the stars, wondering if they really did exist. Questions followed, raising doubts; do we exist. It is a wonderful world of abstracts and thought-experiments that we flowed through gaining every moment an insight into lives we live as ignorant and lifeless concentrations of unpredictably defined energy.

It is a pity; I disappoint myself, yearning to get an overview of everything while not existing for a cause. I have felt the object turn to the existence of my ego, an intimacy for the world of me growing as if plaguing the neural nets of my mind into an eternal trap in the ‘I’.

classroom debate

lets se what we have to keep us busy today.
I'm getting addicted to this stuff. Its freedom, its peace, to let go, to not think, to not have inhibitions, to let flow thoughts trapped, boarded inside the brain.

wake up

something has to be written i need to wake up

Half the problem is understanding the program. How to specify and algorithm. Program

some people kep on writing. i wonder about what the write, prof is confused! but student gets him right

Book is to be read. some portions left during C course.

Is it human nature to try to do

An abstract data type is a mathematical model of a data structure that

well lets see, lets be enthusiastic, lets wake up, it ussualy fetches you excellent marks. We examine therefore the topics discussed today:

what is algo, What is data strc, what is hitler's idea of peace, why are we living to succed, we do i not enjoy my constant failures, are they failures, what am i writing , I was supposed to be making notes, this is my lecture going on, i am here to study, why study, i am happy, in bliss without it, well then again i do what i'm meant to do, What is Abstract Data Type, Data Struc and Algorithms lecture 2.
but I don't want that, i don't see progress in that special button on my remote to get back to the previous channel, I use it, but what, i don’t give respect to the one who (END OF LECTURE)

well

I told him this is of no use, all of this is just to sad, worthless. He just gave a cold shrug. I asked him about the reasons for leaving out the words, letter, sentences on other scraps of paper. He just does not care, stupid fellow just randomly picked up three of them.

and who can I be, well i emerge from the third. Apologies from my side, he has just lost his head. I think i should anyways put forward the genesis of me.

I've always maintained that I am his great idea, his brilliance, even convinced one of his friends but he just threw me with all his other scraps of useless words. I'm lucky that I'm out today. He does not believe me, I ask you for help. Adopt me, make me your own, I promise that you'll be on the top of the world.

Well he just thinks I'm a silly idea he got in 8th standard and he should no longer indulge in such stupidities.

this is me :
(he calls me ‘mindless musings’)
Science it is believed will catch up with the paranormal, or completely dismiss most mystical activities. Foundations of the world as we perceive are not very stable, the space-time graph has many faults (cracks) and at the quantum level the universe exists as foam. Where do these cracks or holes in our universe lead to; possibly into one of the countless other mathematically conceivable worlds? Such a world that we feel and many claim to understand has the co-ordinates of space overlaying, outside of our direct perpetual experience. Spirits as supernatural energy may be the result of accidental overlaps between the two worlds. Living along, around and within you is another world running parallel to ours; the gates guarded by light seem to give way many a times unleashing into our world powers far beyond natural. Concentrate hard and the energy manifest in you can cross over and feel this other world, which fuels our fears. We feel these powers and disregard them but as we live our life is bound to them.

This other world unlike ours will have the speed of light as the lower limit. Time flowing back in this world one is born from the ashes. As we end in this world our life in the other world starts with our death. Men with a powerful drive to affect us after they have passed reach out from the other world to garb onto our universe; affecting our lives as they grope around.

In a mathematically conceivable world existing along the universe we perceive within and around us, differentiated from our being may lay the answer to our apprehensions concerning the paranormal and bizarre. The physical universe of our existence has the speed of light as a barricade; beyond is an imperceptible world that is bound by the same limit but is on the other end. The coordinates of space-time overlaying, we exist simultaneously incapable of feeling those alive around us.

I told him, he should get over the talking worlds thing, he said that i'm not a world, but a concept, theory, maybe even a spirit or a doppelganger of him.

I'm sure we are on this together. He's just to stuck on himself. Cannot get over his past.

Consider me. Do not be as stupid as that him.

lost . trial . end

here i sit my head on the connection. hearing a voice known, but a couple of light years ago. i tried with [trials], and back got back somethings.

the self smudged in the presence, and i left some marks for sure, always unsure, always wanting more.

i stole for want, and moved to understand. obscurity moved from noun to a verb. so many things i would have done, but clouds got in the way. as every fairy tale, i saw the light, but never found the right cue, always standing by the side, illusions i recalled, never knowing any feeling at all. reasons came, and i fought with them, acted strange with friends. they shook their heads, but never told me i had changed.

could i move away from these games with the self, of the strangeness of being watched. i hope i would in my mind one day be able to put meaning to some thoughts, that flash and float around, in fear of being recognized. to be able to come to terms with the mush around and within, without guilt.

i've tried to move away from the presence before, and failed, for reasons mine or not. maybe i am trying again. but i have no reasons to. there are no faults, no arguments.

but what does one do, to escape a shadow so strong, so as to blur the self into it. where all connections you make, end not into you, but into the perceived other. always into the legend.

to forget

it is not so much my inability to write but the lack of courage for truth. Of life lived less than what can be an image to remember. To write is to assert, to acknowledge an act or thought as a personal truth that existed. To forget, or to recreate a forgotten past is the desperation of a seemingly (and truly) insipid life, to erase the moments that are cliche; means to let go of your being. To only remember what has not been written allows for the construction of the past in the mind of today, offering an escape from the paradoxes, from the conflicts between me before and the me tommorow.

A wish to live not in moments but in life, demands for the memories of another, to follow them unto oblivion. To read of them, into them and from them. But to expect another to flow into you, to save my 'I' from the isolation inherent in being human is stupid, to think of them to feed you with your life an absurdity. Then maybe only can what is sometimes called love by people a tracedent or a momentary ilusion into the state of knowing another, and thus instantiating the self; as a legacy and with a future.

please

dust gives way to truth. truth not universal maybe. but truth percived. truth lived. truth remembered.

maybe the hope is to transfer hopes lost, and yearnings into that head. that strange head with a billion secrets. The goal but, can never be reached, even for its triviality, it is a prodox in itself. only prayer and hope can maybe help.

what do you do when the thoughts you have impugn the privacy,life of your only confidant?

Trash Bin for my Mind

we, a generation of close-ups and silhouettes

frame by frame

help me learn to write

it is not so much that i want to write for the outside to have access to my ideas, thoughts and opinions. In the structure of being, memory and self i have created for me, the self is connected completely and intricately to conversations; those that make use of speech, text and the mute internal musings. Thought being transient fade into oblivion as soon as they pass me, coming again sometime, if at all. With these ephemral conversationsthe self dissolves, loosing itself to the mysteries of memory. To be alive and 'me' only for this moment is not to be human, is to be denied choice and chance. It kills any hopes of the future, and leaves no space in time for a history of me.

In the struggle to remember, to catalouge convesations and thus preserve a link to me, i recede from the real. The present, my moment of existence, seems to me, lost in the haze of a 'battle for my past'. Loosing everything slowly, material and spiritual, and the little i understand, i live, frame by frame, hoping to create 'my life' in the analysis of the recordings of others. Frame by frame i am obliterated by the weight of the others, who grow step by step, understanding and doing.

The only hope is to proclaim of my existence to a future who will be me, to write. Save the moment, the moment itself and not the reflection of it in the eyes of the world around. In the gaze of truth that unifies the private with the public, the self is lost; being me is hidden under the need to imitate the image of me. And the words then have to flow not at the speed of thought, as that will cheat the writing of the animation of being. The tension between the words and thought, the space in time between the two liable for the beauty in the text. The struggle of words to engage completely the flow of thought or vice versa captures existence as it is, with its struggle and dialectic, the confusion, chance and plurality is what defines being. The motifs underlayed in the composition of existence emerge in this strife, generating an history, a legacy for the future that hopefully will be me.