525,600 Minutes

Silver-lined tears and smiles - we're all playing, living, breathing, existing, experiencing silver-lined songs, soundtracks, lives and loves. Breathe. Sing. Move. Live. Love.

A leaf falls, remembering forgotten autumn as the birds sing in the small of the morning. No day but today.

Targets

Prints dance across warm faux-metal colours, painting their ideas into the program - it is funny that such logic, such a thing made from numbers, symbols and things that most don't understand can be made home to such creative thought, such vastness, so many worlds and peoples. It is strange that such freedom can be held under such a tight schedule. Two thousand a day, no less. More is allowed, more is always allowed, welcomed and respected. But never less.

Progress comes from these dancing fingers as they make their mark on the program, weaving such beauty that the program, if it had feelings, might collapse onto its hypothetical knees and pray to the spectacled gods that created it.

And it should.

The program pales beneath the life it holds in its hypothetical hands as the dancing print-steps continue on in regimented specs of progress.

Two thousand a day, no less.

Words

The travel in great numbers, quickly spreading their rune-like shapes across the white of my page.

Anon

So many faces, blinking, speaking, screeching. Passing by and living their lives, as you'd expect it. Crowded streets are always so fascinating, so indescribably full of ideas and moments that you could get lost just looking at them. And you do. I see it in your face and I watch it as it grips you, takes you in and drags you under.

It is a happy coincidence that you and I are to be sat here on the same day, watching the street and cataloguing the faces. Your face in mine and mine in yours. The anonymous stranger sat two tables away, wondering what it is you could be thinking.

Decorating

It's like playing chess, having a backdrop such as this - an eternal game, as eternal as it gets in the ferocious grip of cyberspace. Things change here, a lot of things. It only takes a slash or a space or a semi-colon and something is different. Not noticeable. But still - different. It's your move, sir.

There are always things to do and things to change, little details that aren't quite right and need a little thought before altering. One might not even notice them once they are changed... but knowing they have been leave satisfaction and pride.

The welcome mat is always important. It must be pleasing, inviting - unless, of course, you don't want anyone to visit. Then one would ask, why? Why are you here? This place is so public, so far from private that you must want a visitor. And you would sit. Smile a little and say once again: It's your move, sir.

Pro and Prod

Pro is controlling, he sits on the grey matter with that spark in his eye and that smirk that gets exactly what it wants. Trying to talk to him leads only to a snappy remark; "Only friends call me Pro." Others don't get a name for him, they aren't worthy of addressing him but they know who he is and what he embodies. He won't talk to them after that. He's very stubborn.

Prod mopes. Sat in his little cave beneath the grey matter Pro keeps him locked up. Some say they are one in the same. A schizophrenic separated into two imaginary bodies. Prod is not happy but anyone can call him Prod - he has many friends.

He doesn't see them. Not in his little, pulsing cave. Pro stops him from doing everything and anything he wants. He isn't allowed. He's bound to doing exactly what Pro says.

He isn't happy.

But sometimes, if he concentrates and tries hard enough, he can slip through the bars and move up to the surface without Pro noticing. He smiles then. And get's everything done before going back to the little cave Pro keeps him in.

Crawl

Sitting on her throne, of sorts, she makes sounds filled with false-care and comments weaved from from a vague sense of immitated feeling - she is above us, it is her right. Her words seep with the sense that she is better, more talented, more deserving of the air around her. Slowly she slips in hints and crawling phrases looking to fulfill her craving for praise, recognition, attention.

But it's not about her, the stage is not for her to woo her unenthusiastic crowd. It is for us - our growth.

And still she stands - her words niggling at our ears, not listening to what we say and infecting us with the crawlers. They bite at our withered brains.

Again. Again.

With a tick it's over, we're free.

You

You are the awkward phone call, you're the alarm that doesn't go off. You're the food that's gone cold and the ice that melted too quickly. You're the shower that's too warm or too cold. You are the sleep that ended before its time and wouldn't come back to life until another night was over.

You're the mediocre dream, with no excitement or colour. You're the nightmare that won't go away. You're the headache that sticks messily to my head like hardened honey. You're illness, the cancer, the tumour. You're the strawberry scent of death, cold on my neck and my cheeks.

You're the darkness that I can't see through.

You're the cold in my room, the thick, insufferable, mindnumbing cold in the corners that creeps without a sound into my eyelids as I sleep.

Snowblind

It's not that usual blindness one gets up mountains from the sun's reflection on the never-melting snow, it's a different kind. More invasive. And yet, in its own way, it's enjoyable - the feel of the cold on my eyes and closed under my lids, the way it floats down upon them when it knows I don't want to blink, can't blink and won't blink. It's cruel but I enjoy it, want it even.

Everything is a haze of glowing amber, shapes of muted colours float past slower than they do in reality - everything's slower when snowblind.

In slow-motion, my life flutters past upon the wings of an all-too-freezing moth trying to make it's way to the warm light behind a window pane. I see moments in sepia tone, and I think, I remember. I close my eyes and melt them away.

Open again, I look up to the sky. Shimmering diamonds on blue velvet.