The "Freeola Customer Forum" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
I guess sometimes you need to make a decision, take some control in your life or you'll always fail, time after time again.
I have on my table fourteen 20mg tablets of Cipramil. I've got plenty more tablets that will accompliment it. This is not a cry for help, so don't worry, this is a threat to my mind.
My 'take control' attitude today insists that I am going to write out a story that I've been meaning to write right now, or I'm going to kill myself. This is set in stone now, which should be interesting. Black or white, yes or no, easy as that. Either I do something I want to do or life really isn't worth living.
Sitting around and moaning achieves nothing and I'm fed up of fear and laziness dictating my life.
The next post from me will be a story or a goodbye. Place bets now kids.
I have on my table fourteen 20mg tablets of Cipramil. I've got plenty more tablets that will accompliment it. This is not a cry for help, so don't worry, this is a threat to my mind.
My 'take control' attitude today insists that I am going to write out a story that I've been meaning to write right now, or I'm going to kill myself. This is set in stone now, which should be interesting. Black or white, yes or no, easy as that. Either I do something I want to do or life really isn't worth living.
Sitting around and moaning achieves nothing and I'm fed up of fear and laziness dictating my life.
The next post from me will be a story or a goodbye. Place bets now kids.
Stop making me think you're going to top yourself, you selfish mentalist.
I love you, you big Welsh freak.
I love you, you big Welsh freak.
I love praise. It makes me feel wanted. ;0)
You do know everyone's going to say, "Brilliant, Grix. Most wonderful..." as not to push you over the edge?
:^D
:^D
Quiet you, you know how damn lazy I am, this is the only way I'll get myself to do anything.
Wrote five pages so far, here's the first chapter, it's going well.
---
Grix’s heart pumped inside him like someone was shaking his body. He closed his eyes, swaying on the bed, losing himself in half made dreams and colours. His breath seemed to become louder, overpowering any sound there else may be.
He looked to the carpet, the colours in the rug near his feet swirling into nothing.
If you look at something too closely, all the detail sometimes vanishes. You become numb to it, it slides together, overlapping and eventually you forget it was ever there. You become immune.
If you looked hard enough at Ralph’s face on the over side of the window, through the plain blue curtains, you could believe he was just lying back, staring at the sun. Basking in the glory of nature.
As much as he wanted to, as much as he tried and forced himself to understand, Grix could never lose himself in the details. The depth was only there for character, to make things more believable. But it stole the magic, the wonder. Too much knowledge, it seemed, can kill you.
Grix gripped his hands into his fur, closing his eyes and losing himself in colours again. No thought no sound, nothing. He opened his eyes.
He couldn’t recognise the reflection. He couldn’t recognise his reflection because the details had changed, and his whole reflection was something that he was sure he had never seen.
A fox with sunken eyes looked back at him. Orange red fur, white patches of hair stuck under old dirty clothes. The details really didn’t matter. They shouldn’t.
Grix Thraves had an imaginary friend. He knew he was imaginary because he smelt different to everyone else. Or at least, everyone he had met.
His name was Ralph. Ralph was a black and white medium length haired dog, with long black hair sporting down from his scalp, a sign of maturity among the creatures. Ralph had a lust for life, loved classical music and always seemed to be complaining about his back. He couldn’t roll his R’s, his nails were dull and worn, he didn’t like eating bananas and he was always the shoe in Monopoly. Grix thought he was fifteen years old. But then, none of that mattered because he was dead.
Ralph was impaled on the bright white fence. You could get splinters off the fence if you stroked your hand down the side. The paint had soaked too far into the wood in some parts, bleached by the sun and looked old. It was green at the joints, and the nails holding it together were rusty. And Ralph was dead.
Grix had killed his own imaginary friend.
He dug his nails deep into his skin, trying to puncture it, try and bring him back out from fading away again.
“Grix?”
He awoke, half shaking, turned around. “Hi.” His mother. It was morning.
She walked to the window, pulling back the curtains and looking out to the sun rising itself into the sky. “Beautiful day.” She said.
Perhaps if everyone concentrated on the weather, the sun, the warmth, nothing would ever seem bad.
For six days now, she had come in, opened the curtains, and each time she never saw him.
Why? Why wouldn’t he leave? What purpose did he have, staying here?
“How are you this morning?” His mother asked, distracted by how dirty the lamp was getting.
“I’m fine.” Grix replied.
Everyone can fill in the blanks.
If they want everything to be great and wonderful, then that’s what they think. It’s only the paranoid ones that want the details. They don’t want the details so they can change them, and make things right...they want the details because they’re harder to convince. It seemed we were all ruled by fear.
Another day.
Days went by. Ralph was always there.
Grix’s parents left for work an hour after his mother would open his curtains. They locked the front door and he was never allowed out of the house.
Apparently one cannot run away from their problems, but only take charge. His imaginary friend was dead, impaled to the fence outside. The reason he wouldn’t leave was because Grix’s mind wouldn’t let him. He needed friends, real friends.
Grix opened the window of his bedroom, and climbed out.
There was something wrong with Grix. His parents missed out the details, but he wasn’t allowed to go to school, or be with other children.
Out of the house, Grix stood at the end of the street, picked a direction and walked along the pavement.
His heart pounded again in his chest hard once more, when he came across a sign pointing towards ‘School’.
Wrote five pages so far, here's the first chapter, it's going well.
---
Grix’s heart pumped inside him like someone was shaking his body. He closed his eyes, swaying on the bed, losing himself in half made dreams and colours. His breath seemed to become louder, overpowering any sound there else may be.
He looked to the carpet, the colours in the rug near his feet swirling into nothing.
If you look at something too closely, all the detail sometimes vanishes. You become numb to it, it slides together, overlapping and eventually you forget it was ever there. You become immune.
If you looked hard enough at Ralph’s face on the over side of the window, through the plain blue curtains, you could believe he was just lying back, staring at the sun. Basking in the glory of nature.
As much as he wanted to, as much as he tried and forced himself to understand, Grix could never lose himself in the details. The depth was only there for character, to make things more believable. But it stole the magic, the wonder. Too much knowledge, it seemed, can kill you.
Grix gripped his hands into his fur, closing his eyes and losing himself in colours again. No thought no sound, nothing. He opened his eyes.
He couldn’t recognise the reflection. He couldn’t recognise his reflection because the details had changed, and his whole reflection was something that he was sure he had never seen.
A fox with sunken eyes looked back at him. Orange red fur, white patches of hair stuck under old dirty clothes. The details really didn’t matter. They shouldn’t.
Grix Thraves had an imaginary friend. He knew he was imaginary because he smelt different to everyone else. Or at least, everyone he had met.
His name was Ralph. Ralph was a black and white medium length haired dog, with long black hair sporting down from his scalp, a sign of maturity among the creatures. Ralph had a lust for life, loved classical music and always seemed to be complaining about his back. He couldn’t roll his R’s, his nails were dull and worn, he didn’t like eating bananas and he was always the shoe in Monopoly. Grix thought he was fifteen years old. But then, none of that mattered because he was dead.
Ralph was impaled on the bright white fence. You could get splinters off the fence if you stroked your hand down the side. The paint had soaked too far into the wood in some parts, bleached by the sun and looked old. It was green at the joints, and the nails holding it together were rusty. And Ralph was dead.
Grix had killed his own imaginary friend.
He dug his nails deep into his skin, trying to puncture it, try and bring him back out from fading away again.
“Grix?”
He awoke, half shaking, turned around. “Hi.” His mother. It was morning.
She walked to the window, pulling back the curtains and looking out to the sun rising itself into the sky. “Beautiful day.” She said.
Perhaps if everyone concentrated on the weather, the sun, the warmth, nothing would ever seem bad.
For six days now, she had come in, opened the curtains, and each time she never saw him.
Why? Why wouldn’t he leave? What purpose did he have, staying here?
“How are you this morning?” His mother asked, distracted by how dirty the lamp was getting.
“I’m fine.” Grix replied.
Everyone can fill in the blanks.
If they want everything to be great and wonderful, then that’s what they think. It’s only the paranoid ones that want the details. They don’t want the details so they can change them, and make things right...they want the details because they’re harder to convince. It seemed we were all ruled by fear.
Another day.
Days went by. Ralph was always there.
Grix’s parents left for work an hour after his mother would open his curtains. They locked the front door and he was never allowed out of the house.
Apparently one cannot run away from their problems, but only take charge. His imaginary friend was dead, impaled to the fence outside. The reason he wouldn’t leave was because Grix’s mind wouldn’t let him. He needed friends, real friends.
Grix opened the window of his bedroom, and climbed out.
There was something wrong with Grix. His parents missed out the details, but he wasn’t allowed to go to school, or be with other children.
Out of the house, Grix stood at the end of the street, picked a direction and walked along the pavement.
His heart pounded again in his chest hard once more, when he came across a sign pointing towards ‘School’.
Rule 1: All members will notify other band members of suicide attempts prior to their occurence.
Please :)
Please :)
i applaud your work ethic! :)
writing a story is so time consuming......
You actually do worry/scare the living daylights out of me sometimes.
Aah, the life of Grix.
Someone should make a film.
Oh, and apparently "Cipramil should be discontinued if the patient enters a manic phase."
Hmm.
Aah, the life of Grix.
Someone should make a film.
Oh, and apparently "Cipramil should be discontinued if the patient enters a manic phase."
Hmm.
I guess sometimes you need to make a decision, take some control in your life or you'll always fail, time after time again.
I have on my table fourteen 20mg tablets of Cipramil. I've got plenty more tablets that will accompliment it. This is not a cry for help, so don't worry, this is a threat to my mind.
My 'take control' attitude today insists that I am going to write out a story that I've been meaning to write right now, or I'm going to kill myself. This is set in stone now, which should be interesting. Black or white, yes or no, easy as that. Either I do something I want to do or life really isn't worth living.
Sitting around and moaning achieves nothing and I'm fed up of fear and laziness dictating my life.
The next post from me will be a story or a goodbye. Place bets now kids.
I have on my table fourteen 20mg tablets of Cipramil. I've got plenty more tablets that will accompliment it. This is not a cry for help, so don't worry, this is a threat to my mind.
My 'take control' attitude today insists that I am going to write out a story that I've been meaning to write right now, or I'm going to kill myself. This is set in stone now, which should be interesting. Black or white, yes or no, easy as that. Either I do something I want to do or life really isn't worth living.
Sitting around and moaning achieves nothing and I'm fed up of fear and laziness dictating my life.
The next post from me will be a story or a goodbye. Place bets now kids.