log entries of timotheus

I’ve been working on trying to merge my old wordpress blog (2004-2006) with this new one. The problem I’m having is since it’s WordPress 1.2, the database structure is totally different. I might be able to use some PERL to parse the things, but that will be a little tricky.

In the meantime, I was looking through my old entries, and I found this one from July 2005. I had just moved into my first apartment. Check it out:

I’m sitting in my old room at my parents house. I needed to come here one last time because my metal media rack and dresser are still here. My Dad and I will go to work tomorrow, then get the company truck and use it to haul my stuff tomorrow night.

I’m sitting in my old room at my parents house. All my clothes, books, and computers are gone, with the exception of my laptop. In this absence of distractions, I find my imagination filling in lapse moments with random images. I think my imagination works better with nothing to distract it.

I’m sitting in my old room at my parents house. Last night I slept at my new apartment, on the living room floor. I needed to be there early for the comcast guy. Anyway, it was around 9pm, and I had nothing else to do, so I laid on my back, and listened to the ‘World of Warcraft’ soundtrack on my MuVo. I looked at the textured ceiling, and noted that if I wanted any image to be formed from them, all I needed to do was concentrate of what I wanted to see. Nothing specific, but something to give my brain a rough idea. An example would be, “an angry face”. In a moments time, the light and dark patterns of the ceiling have a pattern, and I can piece together a face of a man, howling in rage. The phrase ‘howling in rage’ occurs in many books, but this was the first time I had seen it. Rage looks to me like someone allowing hatred to fill the essence of their soul, even pushing out all the good things to make room for the hatred, then focusing all that raw hate towards a single person. I can feel what this image feels. Just staring at the person you hate isn’t enough, but words can’t describe the feeling you have. The hatred must have an outlet, so it taps into your vocal processor, and emits a sound. The two cannot interface properly, it’s like describing the color ‘blue’ to a blind person, but what erupts from the mans mouth gets the point across. If hatred could be personified as a sound, that is what comes from within this man. His howl of rage. It appears hatred is a powerful and destructive ally.

I’m sitting in my old room at my parents house. I had a dream last night, that I was in a society of people who wore masks. I never saw a face, I just saw the persons mask that best defined their personality. Some people were smiling, some were frowning, some angry, and some sad. Masks can be so very descriptive of emotion; even the eye slots were different for each one. I walked around this marketplace, and talked to several of the masked people there. Then there was a commotion on the far end of the square. A lone man entered, and people gave him a wide berth. He walked slowly, almost gliding; his hands not moving in motion with his body. He had a mask I hadn’t seen until that moment. It had thin rectangles for eyes, and a bigger rectangle for his mouth. No emotion at all. People started going back to their jobs, but the nearest one to him got too close, and the emotionless one jumped on her. He buried his face in the victims neck, his mask getting pushed up a bit in the process. A horrible sound came from the victim, then she was quiet. The emotionless one stood up, his back to me, and repositioned his mask. He then helped the victim up. They both turned to me. Both their masks were emotionless now. They both turned to two emotional masked people next to them. They jumped in tandem at their victims. Tandem screams from their prey. In a matter of minutes, all the people in the square were similarly attacked and turned emotionless. People stood at their carts, or at the tables, not moving. Only staring at me. All their masks wore the same emotionless blank. All sounds stopped. That strange noise that is heard when there is dead silence filled my ears. Slowly they all took a step towards me. I was frightened.

I’m sitting in my old room at my parents house. I can’t help but notice the other conscience in my head. It has always been there, this other-side-of-the-coin Tim, but I’ve always never listened to him, in fear of what he’d do with me. It’s not another personality or anything, it’s more like the same song in a minor chord. Happy things become mournful. Good endings become futile. I need this side of me for my writing to improve. He knows he has something I need. I’m scared to ponder what it will cost me.