Sonny,

How have you been? I hope you are feeling alright. I know things have been tough for you, but try to hold on. I’ve been remembering things lately, like your mother for example.

I also remember back then the goverment would treat us like dogs. They would tread on us. I knew how it was, not because of my age, but because of the stories I had read. Knowledge was banned, except for the knowledge that came built into us.

I had my chip removed a while back and since then I had ceased to remember most of the pertaining things of history. It cost me great effort to evolve a mind of my own again, and then to start piecing the bits and bobs of my memory back together again.

So, Gregory told me the other day that he was falling apart. It seems we are all falling apart nowadays. I haven’t been able to find a new book to read in years, and Gregory is feeling more depressed every day with the news. He really hates when the chemical injections start to kick in when he’s feeling down. It’s really annoying, you start feeling bad and the chip injects you, you’re feeling too good and it injects you again, you’re feeling like a rebel and it injects you, you’re feeling unusual and it injects you. Gregory was on the verge of killing himself yesterday but the chip altered his mood yet again, stopping him from committing such action. Not that I would care that much anyway, I mean, he is my best friend but he no longer thinks by himself.

It is ridiculously dangerous to even attempt removing the chip as when it is removed it sends out a GPS alert immediately. I had to cut my arm off, throw the whole thing in a bin several kilometres away, and run like mad. Even so, I’ve been hiding for several years now, I’m surely being searched for, you know, my arm had my DNA and stuff. It’s obvious they are looking for me. Not that they need to really look anyway, they’ve just got these readers everywhere.

I once read up on these ‘license plate’ readers they installed back at the start of the previous millennium. That was only the beginning of many changes to come. Nowadays everything seems peaceful, there are no wars, there is no crime, and the world is at peace, at the cost of the freedom of millions of people.

I wish I could go back to the old world. I mean, it’s great not seeing murder, death, suicide and violence on the TV every day. It’s great not fearing getting knifed outside your apartment in London. It’s great not losing loved ones to wars like the great Iran war in 2015, or the 3rd or 4th world war. It’s great not having to worry about the news, about the weather, about car accidents. But then again, that randomness in life was what made it particularly interesting. Now they care for everything for us, I mean, for those who have the chips. The weather is always standard, the population numbers are always the same, the amount of energy input/output is always the same, the distribution of people across planets is equivalent, it’s all bloody perfect in the end.

I wish I could get a drink of whiskey, you know, one of those Glen… Glen… oh god, I forgot the name years ago, never-mind. Maybe a Chivas would do the trick, if there only was any.

So Gregory said he’ll be stopping by today to bring me a little “fresh” milk and cheese. I better be going now son, I hope you are having a great time, don’t try to find me (not that you’d be able to leave you’re place with that intention anyway), and think not of me as a prisoner, but a free man. I hope this letter gets to you and overpowers the will imposed on you by the machine. I hope one day you acquire the power to liberate yourself. Until then, take care.

Regards,

David Paterson

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He figured out a way to escaped his ravaged city. This Robert Johnson, a man I speak about.

People thought he was going crazy, you know, walking out from his house. He left 2 children behind, little ones, one of the 2 years old.

How was his wife going to cope with it?

He barely earned enough to pay for food, and his wife couldn’t work. Disease had distraught her back in 91′.

Nonetheless, Robert left for newfoundland, searching for newfoundglory. He must have walked for weeks or years. Poor Robert, dying of pneumonia on christmas eve, on a faraway doorstep, in the middle of nowhere, where time was timeless and space was spaceless.

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A few hours before, Johnny had been struggling inside. Not struggling in the womb, but struggling for a purchase. Johnny was on the marketplace, looking for a seller. He had 73 good deeds, but also quite a few bad ones.

Deeds, as we know, weigh themselves out. In the end he had 5 leverage deeds… Karma. Usually new bodies cost 9 to 10 karma points, so he wasn’t able to purchase a good one.

Robert Davis was about to be a father. He was waiting aside his wife, Johanna, in Carlisle Hospital after 3 hours of intense labour. Johanna was really tense, shock in her face, red eyed, screaming.

Johnny made a decision. He chose a new body, Albert Davis. Albert was going to die in a car crash at 29, however, was going to live an enjoyable stress-free life until then. He was going to have all 4 limbs, a good looking head, blond hair, blue eyes, and a beautiful mother.

Because of Albert’s short life span, the price was only 5 quid so Johnny went for it. And so Albert was born, unknowledgeable, fearful, memories leaving him in exchange of a new life, a new chance.

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The Falls - Ian Rankin

I recently finished reading “The Falls” by Ian Rankin. I would consider it to be an interesting crime novel. It includes particularly interesting elements of history into the book, and is very well written.

The plot is concise, and I found no immediately-evident holes. There was an excellent use of Scottish history, and quite an extensive vocabulary, including Scottish phrases and words.

One thing I thought was a bit bothersome was the fact that from 3/4 of the book, till about 30 pages before the end, the pace seemed to slow down a lot. Everything seemed to stagnate, and the characters didn’t seem quite well to know what they were doing, or seemed to be getting nowhere. Considering this is a crime novel, a large book, and written by a respectable author, I find it amusing to see this kind of problem. However, it was just a small one in the whole picture.

I would rate the book 3.5/5 in a general scale.

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Bones of the Hills - Conn Iggulden

I just finished reading Bones of the Hills by Conn Iggulden. It is the 3rd book in the Conqueror Series of Genghis Khan. I would like to share my thought on the book.

The hardback version is 518 pages long, so it proves to be a lengthy good read. It is mostly fiction, however, many dates, army sizes, names, and events are based on actual facts and tales written throughout history.

The book is very vivid and descriptive. While I am a fan of 1st person writing, this book was colourful and used a wealthy amount of grammar. It is fast paced, and I consider it the least boring book I’ve read in about a year. The most intense and emotional part (in my opinion) is towards the end, at four fifths of the book.

If you are looking for a historical novel to read through I can highly recommend this book.

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I just read an interesting post that talks about cross-dressing as a method of overcoming the creative block, to be able to develop another “way” of thinking, as in thinking as the opposite sex would. It sounds interesting, however, I don’t think it should be necessary to reach those extremes. I live by a basic rule:

If you wouldn’t read what your writing down, you probably shouldn’t be writing it down in the first place.

If you run out of ideas, probably what you are doing right now isn’t interesting enough. The thing to do is find something you would really like to do, then blog about that. For example, go explore the world, take photos, learn a new language, start software programming, make your own website, learn to use photoshop, or a thousand other things come to mind.

Why? This is not only about blogging. Expressing yourself or your thoughts via a blog is only a way to reflect your own self on the web. So if your own self is boring, the best thing to do is to make your life less boring. And it is possible, it doesn’t matter if you work, or are too busy all the time, there is always a way to inch in a few things you would like to do. Think about it.

If someone managed to make a whole vlog series about “You Suck at Photoshop“, surely you can come up with something creative and blog about it. I don’t know, just evoke your wildest dreams, just think and act random, sometimes that’s the best way in enabling that creative part of your mind. That way you will never run dry. However, don’t blog without a reason. If you are not feeling it, then don’t go posting it.

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So these departure gates are there not to stop us, but to allow us to move on to the next town, to the next gate. Not to lock us in, but to keep us moving. And if we stay back, if we fail to see the world beyond these city lines, we fail to explore, and we fail to know more than what our own land has to offer to us. There is so much out there, there is so much beyond.

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I am in love with the inverted question mark “¿”. It hangs like a light bulb, with such charisma and curves. It is but a mere symbol, however, a symbol so special to me. I am in love with this question mark, as it states the unraveling awkwardness of the world, a strange world in which I grew up in. ¿Is it true, my love, that a question should start with you? You represent a world with many languages, many signs, and many symbols. My inverted question mark, you represent change, beauty and awkwardness. My inverted question mark, you will always be my true undaunted love.

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The atmosphere ringed on for ages, with purple-green horizons staring back at me. And the eyes grew from deep within the trees. I knew I was there, at the right place, at the right time.

I wandered around the tree, one that would be cut down in the following months. I heard sounds of acoustic guitars rattling by near my head; while the bass drum, suspended in mid-air, bang swiftly to the rhythm of drum and bass.

The climbing plants created envelopes around me, and the canvas was covered, bloodshed. I new it was the place, but was it the time? I felt the grass whispering to my feet, don’t strangle me please, don’t kill me. And the buzzing of the birds, and the tweeting of bees, it rang through my brain, tormenting.

It was all going to fast, I could barely understand. It might be the time, but it might not be the place.

And I turned to the tree again, shivering. Icicles formed on the branches of the climbing plants. I was sweltering in the 40ºC mid-day heat. The sky turned orange, then purple again. I did not understand, I felt the violins scream around me. Or they might have been guitars, squelching at incredible speeds. Key change.

I touched the tree, as it slowly faded away into dreams, dreams of a past taken away from me, dreams of a photograph erased, dreams from a lost post, dreams from a memory.

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