Chapter Two
Listening To - Santa Monica, by Theory Of A Dead Man
Lisa's Apartment
15/10/2005
17:51
15/10/2005
17:51
Lisa sat at her PC desk, typing. Maths laid strewn in front of her, lit drowsily by a musty light that hung high above her. Darkness didn't feature anywhere in the room particularly, but she was always stuck with the feeling that there wasn't enough light in the room. Tap tap tap. Incessantly, she worked, drumming out formulaic essays, simple poetry and biased arguments. The glow of the monitor seeped into her eyes and began to bleed across her vision.
She shook herself. Too long at a screen. Looking up, she surveyed what she had done. Not much.
Lisa was never proud of what she did. If someone had asked her why, she would probably tell them it was because she was too good for pride, or something witty along those lines. But really it was because she was horribly insecure. Every word, every rhyme, every misplaced syllable; they all jarred in her head, off-key creations of her tap tap tap, none of them working harmony like they were supposed to.
She picked up a few scraps of paper on her desk. She'd poured an idea or two onto them, but they had gone rotten over time. It was so long since she last wrote something of any personal interest, she had forgotten what it felt like. Suddenly, a thought occured to her, and she picked up a headless, red biro, and scribbled Great Men down onto a little square of memo paper. Tomorrow morning the two words would carry no meaning. For now they held at least a little significance.
She opened up another word document and began to type.
What is it about people these days? I'm beginning to feel decidedly out of place. The journalist group suggested writing a magazine on the theme of Identity. Identity? It sounds like an art assignment or some twisted publication from the depths of Bohemia. Why does it sound like that, though? That's what irritates me. I feel like I can't write about it, like I don't understand it the way they do. Ironically, I don't feel that Identity means anything to a person like me. But of course, it is ironic, because that would be enough to write about. Oh, god, the swirling logic.
She pauses, then sneezes, before continuing typing.
What does it mean to me? What a stupid question. Identity is, by definition, all about me. How can I relate it to anyone else, without showing up how pointless the whole thing is? If I write about identity, any meaning that anyone else extracts from it will only be because they, by some freak chaotic chance, have the same feeling as me. Which kind of kills the whole mood anyway, doesn't it? Maybe not.
She considers deleting what she's written, but decides against it. Otherwise, she reasons, she'll never leave any trace of her thoughts behind her. Even if, sometimes, they're a little hard to read.
Bloody bohemians. Nothing's ever simple...
She hits 'Publish', and swears at the light.
She shook herself. Too long at a screen. Looking up, she surveyed what she had done. Not much.
Lisa was never proud of what she did. If someone had asked her why, she would probably tell them it was because she was too good for pride, or something witty along those lines. But really it was because she was horribly insecure. Every word, every rhyme, every misplaced syllable; they all jarred in her head, off-key creations of her tap tap tap, none of them working harmony like they were supposed to.
She picked up a few scraps of paper on her desk. She'd poured an idea or two onto them, but they had gone rotten over time. It was so long since she last wrote something of any personal interest, she had forgotten what it felt like. Suddenly, a thought occured to her, and she picked up a headless, red biro, and scribbled Great Men down onto a little square of memo paper. Tomorrow morning the two words would carry no meaning. For now they held at least a little significance.
She opened up another word document and began to type.
What is it about people these days? I'm beginning to feel decidedly out of place. The journalist group suggested writing a magazine on the theme of Identity. Identity? It sounds like an art assignment or some twisted publication from the depths of Bohemia. Why does it sound like that, though? That's what irritates me. I feel like I can't write about it, like I don't understand it the way they do. Ironically, I don't feel that Identity means anything to a person like me. But of course, it is ironic, because that would be enough to write about. Oh, god, the swirling logic.
She pauses, then sneezes, before continuing typing.
What does it mean to me? What a stupid question. Identity is, by definition, all about me. How can I relate it to anyone else, without showing up how pointless the whole thing is? If I write about identity, any meaning that anyone else extracts from it will only be because they, by some freak chaotic chance, have the same feeling as me. Which kind of kills the whole mood anyway, doesn't it? Maybe not.
She considers deleting what she's written, but decides against it. Otherwise, she reasons, she'll never leave any trace of her thoughts behind her. Even if, sometimes, they're a little hard to read.
Bloody bohemians. Nothing's ever simple...
She hits 'Publish', and swears at the light.
posted by FinalSin @ 5:45 pm
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