The "Freeola Customer Forum" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only.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 sit here feeling strained, knowing I have the ambition to do something creative of epic proportions. I want to write, I love writing but most of all I want to make a difference with my writing. I want to write something that will live on after I have died for people to remember me by; a timeless classic novel or a book of enduring usefulness.
The though of dying and being forgotten suffocates me. Some people are quite content to live out their life in relative happiness, die and then be forgotten. I want to leave behind me a legacy. I want people to read something I have written and for it to speak volumes to them. I want to make a difference to the lives of people; but I do not know how.
I sit here at my computer most nights with a blank word document open, wanting to begin my masterpiece. Longing for my fingers to spring to life and begin tapping down the jumbles mass of emotion, creativity and vitriol that is my thumping unconscious in a legible fashion. I keep a pen and paper by my bedside in case a dream clarifies what it is I am meant to write about. What I am meant to bring to the world that I feel is going to be so important. If I were a spiritual person I would probably say it was my destiny to convey this message that sits encoded in the back of my mind, always a few inches from the tip of my proverbial tongue; but so far it hasn’t made itself clear enough to scribble down on paper.
My jumbled assortment of poetry, discourses and stories each hold an element of what I am trying to reveal, but the big picture is far from complete. It pains me to think that I may never discover what it is I feel the need to express so badly. I have tried philosophising, stabbing in the dark at huge issues such as the meaning of life or the size of the universe. Issues I feel uncouth of someone of my education to even ponder with any degree of seriousness. But I will continue to explore every issue under the sun until I probe deep enough into my psyche to uncover the message I have to offer the world. Something I need to uncover for the sake of my ever failing sanity.
The though of dying and being forgotten suffocates me. Some people are quite content to live out their life in relative happiness, die and then be forgotten. I want to leave behind me a legacy. I want people to read something I have written and for it to speak volumes to them. I want to make a difference to the lives of people; but I do not know how.
I sit here at my computer most nights with a blank word document open, wanting to begin my masterpiece. Longing for my fingers to spring to life and begin tapping down the jumbles mass of emotion, creativity and vitriol that is my thumping unconscious in a legible fashion. I keep a pen and paper by my bedside in case a dream clarifies what it is I am meant to write about. What I am meant to bring to the world that I feel is going to be so important. If I were a spiritual person I would probably say it was my destiny to convey this message that sits encoded in the back of my mind, always a few inches from the tip of my proverbial tongue; but so far it hasn’t made itself clear enough to scribble down on paper.
My jumbled assortment of poetry, discourses and stories each hold an element of what I am trying to reveal, but the big picture is far from complete. It pains me to think that I may never discover what it is I feel the need to express so badly. I have tried philosophising, stabbing in the dark at huge issues such as the meaning of life or the size of the universe. Issues I feel uncouth of someone of my education to even ponder with any degree of seriousness. But I will continue to explore every issue under the sun until I probe deep enough into my psyche to uncover the message I have to offer the world. Something I need to uncover for the sake of my ever failing sanity.
Page:
a whopper for the copper
Whoops, hoist by my own petard.
And it wasn't an insult, you are under 20 are you not? If not, then you were once or something.
And it wasn't an insult, you are under 20 are you not? If not, then you were once or something.
I will ignore your "insult", because you insult everyone, me especially since I became a policeman.
But mainly because I'm more interested in this...
Goatboy wrote:
> Crimes employing immigrant feral kids!!!!!
But mainly because I'm more interested in this...
Goatboy wrote:
> Crimes employing immigrant feral kids!!!!!
Whilst normally I would love to spend my evenings talking man-ass over the internet with a pubescent policeman, I'm afraid I have to go and do crime.
Crimes employing immigrant feral kids!!!!!
Crimes employing immigrant feral kids!!!!!
Goatboy wrote:
> Sure, salty tears of admiration and a cathartic release from the harsh
> realities of life slid down my rosy cheeks as I read another missive
> from an amateur Tom Wolfe.
I only have rosey cheeks in one place now that I'm older.
> Sure, salty tears of admiration and a cathartic release from the harsh
> realities of life slid down my rosy cheeks as I read another missive
> from an amateur Tom Wolfe.
I only have rosey cheeks in one place now that I'm older.
ßora† §agdiyeV wrote:
> that reminds me, did you ever get that sperm out of your eye, English?
It wasn't sperm!
I mean, when I shoot, I shoot far.. but...ahem.
The blind spot has gone, yus.
> that reminds me, did you ever get that sperm out of your eye, English?
It wasn't sperm!
I mean, when I shoot, I shoot far.. but...ahem.
The blind spot has gone, yus.
Sure, salty tears of admiration and a cathartic release from the harsh realities of life slid down my rosy cheeks as I read another missive from an amateur Tom Wolfe.
that reminds me, did you ever get that sperm out of your eye, English?
Goaty, I think you cried when you read that.
"You are not a beautiful and unique snowflake"
Page: