back to the story

The song continues to play in the
background. It’s a Billie Holiday
song with an elegantly blaring
trumpet responding to every vocal
whim of an intriguing songstress.
On the television is a video game.
I remember coming out in the nineties
when it was in its initial birthing to
the public. It was a creepy game
and with the mission involved, one
can’t help but understand the ability
to feel no emotions while simulating
murderous acts upon deathly creatures
in what is clearly a fictional scenario.
Perhaps I haven’t watched it long
enough to understand how the
player of the game is given
control of the character running
around through the continuous
obstacles in the pursuit of
something with the two or
three other characters who
are equipped with their head
attire and gear upon their backs.
Goodness, the cinematic parts of
this game are quite elaborate.

The female character is wandering
through the maze of ladders and
tunnels in which she can swim
but must avoid the clawing of
some sort of sea creature. Blue
lights or a glare from something
in the distance makes one curious
but the door proves more worthy
of an entry. Wandering seems
like a frequent pastime required
by the characters even in the
midst of large violent dinosaur
sea being capable of attacking
with arms and large teeth lining
the side of the torso facing the
human as well as a thick shell
with dangerous prominent peaks.

Why is this video game so
captivating? Is it the time
of night? Level of exhaustion?
Who is to say if other adjectives
signaled tracking devices
capable of alerting certain
enforcements of what they
inappropriately deem
violators of traffic conditions.

But back to the story.

Goodness, there is so much
stimulation available right now.
I almost feel like I’m feeling
a sensory overload. There’s smooth
music playing from an online radio
application. A vivid video game is
unfolding so violently in image
and music. My fingers want to
capture thoughts at these very
moments for whatever reason.
And then the rush of writing
everything down gets immediately
old. Instantaneously there’s
a wish of being more
participatory in
conversation rather
than attempting to do
exactly what, oh, who was
it in The Waves, did because
of an interest in noting everything
for the purpose of a future project.
Or was it The Years? Shit. Maybe
To the Lighthouse?


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