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Fucked Up College Kids File 446
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Dark Reflection
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I wake up. The light of the television screen blinding my eyes. Did I sleep
that long? I stand up, hating the world, hating the people in it, and hating
the fact that the only thing that makes me happy is a work of fiction. I
pour a drink from the cabinet. Nothing better than the old
whiskey-and-ginger ale combination to get you started.
I turn on the television to see a man standing there trying to sell me his
religion. Another reason I've always chosen to stay from the entity that
they all call "God." It's revolting to see people devote their lives to
this shit.
I cough uncontrollably for a good minute or so, and take another sip of my
drink. It's 5:48 AM. I know I have to get it together and get myself ready
to leave, but I find myself thinking about this whole situation I'm in. I
pick up the remote and see a woman babbling uncontrollably on Channel 3. I
never quite understood why these morons think it's good to know how goddamned
fucked up the world is. I live with a daily reminder, myself, every single
day.
Ironic, isn't it, that when things are so dismal and hate-filled, people
still believe my decoys that I'm alright. I am a master at being a coward,
not able to face up to my own problems, watching them fester and bubble
before my own eyes. I need something to prevent people from giving me
attention about this, and so I mask everything. Occasionally, when I
need to let some of this out, I write a letter, a poem, a song. An outlet
is all it is. A temporary remedy. Trick stitches.
Clothes are strewn across my bedroom. The television plays a classical tune
on a commercial for a car. The light hum of the computer underlies
everything. It is the answer. I realize that I am not as good a friend as I
would like to be. I realize that my music, no matter how much potential
people say, will never be what I want. I realize that the poems are just
scribbles on a cheap notebook.
Suddenly, a flow of data fills my mind, and I experience the beauty of the
machine. The soothing sound of connecting modems fills my head, and I grin.
I maniacally type at the keyboard, feeding my addiction with every movement.
I continue the entry into the system for a while and decide to log out. What
I am is an addict. There is no way out because it is the way in which I best
express how I feel, in some odd, twisted way. "Normal" life has abandoned me,
exiled me. And here I stand, an advocate of the computer underground. Here,
because when there is a learning process going on, pain can seem distant.
The terrible cough, the emotional anguish, seems to be blocked out. And
they call us criminals. If they would even attempt to understand the motives
behind the movement, they may play a different tune. Besides, they all come
from a social-friendly world, where they can get along with people. They
didn't need to mask their feelings because there were none there in the
first place.
The funny thing is, I used to be so naieve as to believe that someday I could
actually become happy. Ridiculous. I see people all around me, an image of
what I think "happiness" should be. Laughing, talking with friends, holding
hands with a significant other. All of these I've experienced. Nothing
lasts. The world will always leave you like a cold rat dying on the rotting
tiles of floor. Grasping, trying to hold on to something so that you won't
feel so goddamned empty and feeble as you slowly snuff it.
I get up from my desk, click off the television, and turn on the stereo. A
beautifully dark tune plays the soundtrack for my thoughts. The organs and
guitars entrance me. Thoughts of loves gone and past fill my mind. No
matter now, though. The only thing to cure this is to make myself numb.
Stop thinking about it.
It's 6:12 AM now. Almost time to straighten up and get ready. I get a quick
shower, eat some stale toast and butter, and head back to my bedroom. A
track from a gothic band is playing in my room, carrying a haunting melody.
It makes me grin. I grin because they all don't understand the beauty of
sorrow, once it has been cultured. It's like a thorn in a rose. It hurts,
but retains beauty.
Beauty is a strange thing, isn't it? Art or music that some find repulsive, I
take pleasure in experiencing. The fact that real feeling was put into the
canvas, raw emotion was pounded out on a TR101 synthesizer. Of course,
beauty also exists in the penetrated computer system. My challenges derived
from that are all worth it in the end. My masterpiece has been in progress
for over two years now. No one knows for sure how long it will last. All
I know is that as long as the challenge remains, beauty will still emanate
from me.
I finish my drink and lower my head. An abrupt coughing fit starts up. Time
to face the world again.
-- Mordeth
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