GetDotted Domains

Viewing Thread:
"Ramble, ramble, On:- Eternal Vanity"

The "Freeola Customer Forum" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only.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.

Fri 16/04/04 at 18:12
"period drama"
Posts: 19,792
Please note that this has nothing to do with you.

*Cringe*

Or anyone, or anything.
And may, most probably, seem like crap. That’s mostly because it is.

So the wind swept away this, like, totally deadwood silhouette - I dunno, some abstract mind-spew or something. I was like, whatever, the earth’s dying, and eternal pain seems like a vague interpretation of my everyday life.
Oh. My God. A simile - that’s like, so 1979.

But I suppose it’s retro now. So that’s okay. And a perfect excuse for being a whøre - because it’s retro, and I’m cool.
That implies that you’re not. Implications are nothing, though - just, like, what I’m too afraid to say. Or too clever to impart.
Who says they’re not the same thing?

Me.
Well, that’s fecked just about everything up.
Swish

A change in mindset, snap, dry blood draws spirals on the wall.
Click.
Like the shutter closing, slowing drawing back again - slowly, so slowly - as to not disturb the wounds. Partly healed, I know, but they still show and the madness rivals everything - the increasing madness - because there’s nothing to do.

And nothing represents me.
On two levels, the statement rings true. There maybe more, I don’t care.
But I strive to achieve, what cannot be done. Of course, I won’t - but that’s not the point. It’s a rebellion, but I’m too clever to rebel, so I aim for something that’s above me.
And no-one complains - because I’m too intelligent for them to talk down to. In truth, this could be lies.

But there’s nothing on the telly.

The telly, yes.
“Why?”
No, not why - not never not why.
“When?”
Yes, perhaps - I see where you’re coming from. A good ten inches from the pit of despair.

What a film.
What’s that guy’s name - the one from that film, in the pit of despair. The albino. Great stuff.

And slowly (again) so goddamn slowly, the layers peel back to show what time could not - what will could not (although Will I do not speak with anymore. “Be gone, sir!” I hollered in his pasty face. He screamed something equally pretentious back - but I rose above it, with a twinkle on the harp. And then prised his knees off with a claw-hammer. Jolly good show.) and what no-one could have possibly foreseen - those of the short-sighted clan that swarms the globe*

It’s not a pretty sight.
That is to say, stone-face, I know nothing of the sort.
The blood rises to the surface, and stays - gently swaying in the summer breeze. Even though its not summer here - no, winter reigns supreme, a shady place - a distant face, screaming through the thorns.

A crown of thorns, oh dear, not here. “Dear?” Indeed, it seems I’m slipping away - and the ever-shine, never-glow, iridescent mocking of he who looks. And never sees - the seas, the ripened beads of glistening .... something.

Whatever. That’s no longer the point.
I’ve moved on and up - over and above - without anyone realising. Change direction, again, and slip out a little further from the rotting limbs.
Those quick-rotted limbs, that hold everyone up, but always break too soon.

Although it could also be actual limbs - legs and arms. Those grabbing, invasive arms - of protection, they say - of comfort and love.
I do not love to be suffocated. And chinese-burns are not funny. You can probably tear someone’s skin with one of those, I’m sure.

“Kudos, my good man, kudos on the cheese-sticks. The pineapple’s gone a bit brown, though - round the edges. Hello? Yes, it’s me. Disjointed and alone, this is my new place - without you. The clouds are gathering overhead, changing as I speak, white to grey, grey to black. Then the thunder comes, and a submarine would be my only hope for escape. But I’m stuck here and there is no vessel to contain my pain”

Ah yes, kudos on the cheese-sticks.
What was the rest of that? Oh, no, don’t repeat yourself.
I got my praise - so I’m happy. Your complaints are beyond me. I’m no shoulder, no bearer of news (except good - fair) - no tear wiper, hair-holder. Be gone.

Mel is it? Perhaps.
My parents know him, I think


This is the start of the third page. And I just realised - there are no limits here, except for what words cannot express. And me being me, expression is easy - loose and free, unconfined to the straight and narrow never-windings of life.
The ink will never run out. I am not killing the rainforest. This is eternal, and everlasting.
But unstable.

Just a click, and a second in time, and the rows and rows of mindless crust will be gone. Gone, gone - erased from everywhere. In the ink, on the trees - it takes more than this. The reality needs fire to truly disappear - or time (a long time) to rot and die, unnoticed.
That’s it - there are no limits here, but extinction comes so easily.

It was mature cheddar, by the by - not that mild shiznit your mother likes.

That’s why I grant this to you - my inner thoughts. (But not really, my inner thoughts are hidden even to me. This is all I can see, skirting on the edge of vision. Periphery Yes, I know. Flickering dangerously in my mind, balanced on top of the real problems - these are the tales most easiest to pick)

*one of the plastic ones. But the brown plastic ones, so it looks old. Not with lights in, because that looks tacky.

I use flickering too much. A good word, normal and such - but still, too much.
A rhyme of sorts. Most enjoyable.

So, yeah, whatever. I grant - bequeath - this to you, in hope of survival. Some form of remembrance would be nice but I doubt anyone would miss, or even realise.
The electronic evolution - an adaptation in exchange for some watered oil, a fresh wick, and a spark of hope. And / or an actual spark - as real light never issues from hope.
Only actions lead to progress.

Glistening ...
Glistening ...
Glistening ...

No, still stuck.
Mel Smith? Maybe. But maybe the common name seeks to fill a hole (The shape of which I cannot define)

... pain? No, too sombre. I hate the sombre - yet, it sustains me. Whoop-de-bloody-doop. Sombre is easy to do. I long for the light, the fresh, the hopeful shine of a child’s wish.
Something different.

Ah well. Change??>?
If everyone changes around me, and I stay still. Then logically - eventually - I’ll be original again. The one unchanged. Some guy, shrouded in black.
That would be nice.



...









Sorry.
Let’s continue ...

A deadwood silhouette - do you remember? It seems so far away now, and shrouded in the lame. God knows how much I paid to get that cliché out of retirement.
But a rather haunting image.
The deadwood first - dead, obviously. The wood signals at something once alive, and growing. And this harks to the sea - drift wood, perhaps, some kind of trigger in the mind. Strange things, words - they never exist apart from anything, there’s always a link to somewhere else, totally out of context.

Then again, context is nothing but what you let it be.
And the silhouette. Not a shadow, but a blackened image. Once again I’m throw back to the sea - and there’s too many metaphors there, too many memories - as the sun sinks (dying, you could say) below the horizon - the wood becomes blackened.
Blackened is burnt? Why does everything point to death - the sombre has sunk deeper than I recall.

The fact I cannot recall when it began is a much more frightening image. I blacked out - black, became the silhouette, became the image. And the dead wood is me - burned me a premature launch into the sun.
Forced, and scared for the bad decision.

Don’t you just hate it when everything gets overanalysed?

Onwards, ever onwards.
Seems no sign of slowing - I’d forgive you if you gave up already. Your eyes did not produce what they see / saw. My fingers did, and my mind, and as such - to stop is to finish, and the end signals some kind of countdown to the critique.
Yes, yes, I may as well not bother.

There’s hardly any point I know, but I long for the praise - like I said before - that’s all that matters. I don’t care about you. This is for me. But without you, without my preservation - I shrink and die. Funny things.
Co-dependancy Aha. But it’s not plagiarism, as the context is totally different, and much more real. As such. As such. As such.. Not as nice.
Apologies.

Dancing, dancing - that’s quite nice, to dance. Pretty
No - dance of death. My mistake.
Can’t escape this cycle.

The cocktails sticks are pinewood. Enjoy

Is there a link here, can you tell? A connection, a chain between the sections? I know, the dissected, twaddling conversations run through - but something deeper, beyond the lame use of the TAGS.

Beyond that, and beneath it - to the rotting core.
Now there’s a link. To just before.
Someone close knocks on the door.
I save and quit, this is my pour.


...tears? Happy or sad. It depends, really.
On the situation.

Sharing with strangers. You know more than any other.
There are no faces, creased with laughter - crammed into pictures of understanding.
Just name, and words - none of which I know, none of which I represent, and none of which are true.

Oh dear, that was a bit deep.
Well, I’ve dug deeper - but not into myself. Into a vacant plot of seperate emotions.

Sustained by lies? Spot the difference.
Enough.
Page:
Fri 16/04/04 at 19:06
"period drama"
Posts: 19,792
Ah yes, I am remembering such things.
Fare thee well.

How long is it?
Answers not in inches, please
Fri 16/04/04 at 19:00
Regular
"Notable"
Posts: 4,558
Broadband is getting circumcised.
Fri 16/04/04 at 19:00
"period drama"
Posts: 19,792
Why? When? Where?
You'll be missed.
Fri 16/04/04 at 18:58
Regular
"Notable"
Posts: 4,558
I do, I do.

We seem to feed on the same fuel. why did I say that

But I'll no longer be here as of next week.

Now that's monotonous for everyone with half a stimulated brain.
Fri 16/04/04 at 18:55
"period drama"
Posts: 19,792
You know you love it.
Fri 16/04/04 at 18:23
Regular
"Notable"
Posts: 4,558
That was raw, uncut main source ramblings, that only you will understand. And for others to watch in awe.

Excellent pages of mind-numbing brilliance. Bravo


FinalFantasyFanatic wrote:
> Don’t you just hate it when everything gets overanalysed?

Hehehe. Nope!

Ooooh and I got a little mention. Go me!
Fri 16/04/04 at 18:12
"period drama"
Posts: 19,792
Please note that this has nothing to do with you.

*Cringe*

Or anyone, or anything.
And may, most probably, seem like crap. That’s mostly because it is.

So the wind swept away this, like, totally deadwood silhouette - I dunno, some abstract mind-spew or something. I was like, whatever, the earth’s dying, and eternal pain seems like a vague interpretation of my everyday life.
Oh. My God. A simile - that’s like, so 1979.

But I suppose it’s retro now. So that’s okay. And a perfect excuse for being a whøre - because it’s retro, and I’m cool.
That implies that you’re not. Implications are nothing, though - just, like, what I’m too afraid to say. Or too clever to impart.
Who says they’re not the same thing?

Me.
Well, that’s fecked just about everything up.
Swish

A change in mindset, snap, dry blood draws spirals on the wall.
Click.
Like the shutter closing, slowing drawing back again - slowly, so slowly - as to not disturb the wounds. Partly healed, I know, but they still show and the madness rivals everything - the increasing madness - because there’s nothing to do.

And nothing represents me.
On two levels, the statement rings true. There maybe more, I don’t care.
But I strive to achieve, what cannot be done. Of course, I won’t - but that’s not the point. It’s a rebellion, but I’m too clever to rebel, so I aim for something that’s above me.
And no-one complains - because I’m too intelligent for them to talk down to. In truth, this could be lies.

But there’s nothing on the telly.

The telly, yes.
“Why?”
No, not why - not never not why.
“When?”
Yes, perhaps - I see where you’re coming from. A good ten inches from the pit of despair.

What a film.
What’s that guy’s name - the one from that film, in the pit of despair. The albino. Great stuff.

And slowly (again) so goddamn slowly, the layers peel back to show what time could not - what will could not (although Will I do not speak with anymore. “Be gone, sir!” I hollered in his pasty face. He screamed something equally pretentious back - but I rose above it, with a twinkle on the harp. And then prised his knees off with a claw-hammer. Jolly good show.) and what no-one could have possibly foreseen - those of the short-sighted clan that swarms the globe*

It’s not a pretty sight.
That is to say, stone-face, I know nothing of the sort.
The blood rises to the surface, and stays - gently swaying in the summer breeze. Even though its not summer here - no, winter reigns supreme, a shady place - a distant face, screaming through the thorns.

A crown of thorns, oh dear, not here. “Dear?” Indeed, it seems I’m slipping away - and the ever-shine, never-glow, iridescent mocking of he who looks. And never sees - the seas, the ripened beads of glistening .... something.

Whatever. That’s no longer the point.
I’ve moved on and up - over and above - without anyone realising. Change direction, again, and slip out a little further from the rotting limbs.
Those quick-rotted limbs, that hold everyone up, but always break too soon.

Although it could also be actual limbs - legs and arms. Those grabbing, invasive arms - of protection, they say - of comfort and love.
I do not love to be suffocated. And chinese-burns are not funny. You can probably tear someone’s skin with one of those, I’m sure.

“Kudos, my good man, kudos on the cheese-sticks. The pineapple’s gone a bit brown, though - round the edges. Hello? Yes, it’s me. Disjointed and alone, this is my new place - without you. The clouds are gathering overhead, changing as I speak, white to grey, grey to black. Then the thunder comes, and a submarine would be my only hope for escape. But I’m stuck here and there is no vessel to contain my pain”

Ah yes, kudos on the cheese-sticks.
What was the rest of that? Oh, no, don’t repeat yourself.
I got my praise - so I’m happy. Your complaints are beyond me. I’m no shoulder, no bearer of news (except good - fair) - no tear wiper, hair-holder. Be gone.

Mel is it? Perhaps.
My parents know him, I think


This is the start of the third page. And I just realised - there are no limits here, except for what words cannot express. And me being me, expression is easy - loose and free, unconfined to the straight and narrow never-windings of life.
The ink will never run out. I am not killing the rainforest. This is eternal, and everlasting.
But unstable.

Just a click, and a second in time, and the rows and rows of mindless crust will be gone. Gone, gone - erased from everywhere. In the ink, on the trees - it takes more than this. The reality needs fire to truly disappear - or time (a long time) to rot and die, unnoticed.
That’s it - there are no limits here, but extinction comes so easily.

It was mature cheddar, by the by - not that mild shiznit your mother likes.

That’s why I grant this to you - my inner thoughts. (But not really, my inner thoughts are hidden even to me. This is all I can see, skirting on the edge of vision. Periphery Yes, I know. Flickering dangerously in my mind, balanced on top of the real problems - these are the tales most easiest to pick)

*one of the plastic ones. But the brown plastic ones, so it looks old. Not with lights in, because that looks tacky.

I use flickering too much. A good word, normal and such - but still, too much.
A rhyme of sorts. Most enjoyable.

So, yeah, whatever. I grant - bequeath - this to you, in hope of survival. Some form of remembrance would be nice but I doubt anyone would miss, or even realise.
The electronic evolution - an adaptation in exchange for some watered oil, a fresh wick, and a spark of hope. And / or an actual spark - as real light never issues from hope.
Only actions lead to progress.

Glistening ...
Glistening ...
Glistening ...

No, still stuck.
Mel Smith? Maybe. But maybe the common name seeks to fill a hole (The shape of which I cannot define)

... pain? No, too sombre. I hate the sombre - yet, it sustains me. Whoop-de-bloody-doop. Sombre is easy to do. I long for the light, the fresh, the hopeful shine of a child’s wish.
Something different.

Ah well. Change??>?
If everyone changes around me, and I stay still. Then logically - eventually - I’ll be original again. The one unchanged. Some guy, shrouded in black.
That would be nice.



...









Sorry.
Let’s continue ...

A deadwood silhouette - do you remember? It seems so far away now, and shrouded in the lame. God knows how much I paid to get that cliché out of retirement.
But a rather haunting image.
The deadwood first - dead, obviously. The wood signals at something once alive, and growing. And this harks to the sea - drift wood, perhaps, some kind of trigger in the mind. Strange things, words - they never exist apart from anything, there’s always a link to somewhere else, totally out of context.

Then again, context is nothing but what you let it be.
And the silhouette. Not a shadow, but a blackened image. Once again I’m throw back to the sea - and there’s too many metaphors there, too many memories - as the sun sinks (dying, you could say) below the horizon - the wood becomes blackened.
Blackened is burnt? Why does everything point to death - the sombre has sunk deeper than I recall.

The fact I cannot recall when it began is a much more frightening image. I blacked out - black, became the silhouette, became the image. And the dead wood is me - burned me a premature launch into the sun.
Forced, and scared for the bad decision.

Don’t you just hate it when everything gets overanalysed?

Onwards, ever onwards.
Seems no sign of slowing - I’d forgive you if you gave up already. Your eyes did not produce what they see / saw. My fingers did, and my mind, and as such - to stop is to finish, and the end signals some kind of countdown to the critique.
Yes, yes, I may as well not bother.

There’s hardly any point I know, but I long for the praise - like I said before - that’s all that matters. I don’t care about you. This is for me. But without you, without my preservation - I shrink and die. Funny things.
Co-dependancy Aha. But it’s not plagiarism, as the context is totally different, and much more real. As such. As such. As such.. Not as nice.
Apologies.

Dancing, dancing - that’s quite nice, to dance. Pretty
No - dance of death. My mistake.
Can’t escape this cycle.

The cocktails sticks are pinewood. Enjoy

Is there a link here, can you tell? A connection, a chain between the sections? I know, the dissected, twaddling conversations run through - but something deeper, beyond the lame use of the TAGS.

Beyond that, and beneath it - to the rotting core.
Now there’s a link. To just before.
Someone close knocks on the door.
I save and quit, this is my pour.


...tears? Happy or sad. It depends, really.
On the situation.

Sharing with strangers. You know more than any other.
There are no faces, creased with laughter - crammed into pictures of understanding.
Just name, and words - none of which I know, none of which I represent, and none of which are true.

Oh dear, that was a bit deep.
Well, I’ve dug deeper - but not into myself. Into a vacant plot of seperate emotions.

Sustained by lies? Spot the difference.
Enough.
Page:

Freeola & GetDotted are rated 5 Stars

Check out some of our customer reviews below:

Excellent
Excellent communication, polite and courteous staff - I was dealt with professionally. 10/10
LOVE it....
You have made it so easy to build & host a website!!!
Gemma

View More Reviews

Need some help? Give us a call on 01376 55 60 60

Go to Support Centre
Feedback Close Feedback

It appears you are using an old browser, as such, some parts of the Freeola and Getdotted site will not work as intended. Using the latest version of your browser, or another browser such as Google Chrome, Mozilla Firefox, or Opera will provide a better, safer browsing experience for you.