113 lines
6.6 KiB
Plaintext
113 lines
6.6 KiB
Plaintext
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|
|
Dark Reflection
|
|
---------------
|
|
|
|
I wake up. The light of the television screen blinding my eyes. Did I sleep
|
|
that long? I stand up, hating the world, hating the people in it, and hating
|
|
the fact that the only thing that makes me happy is a work of fiction. I
|
|
pour a drink from the cabinet. Nothing better than the old
|
|
whiskey-and-ginger ale combination to get you started.
|
|
|
|
I turn on the television to see a man standing there trying to sell me his
|
|
religion. Another reason I've always chosen to stay from the entity that
|
|
they all call "God." It's revolting to see people devote their lives to
|
|
this shit.
|
|
|
|
I cough uncontrollably for a good minute or so, and take another sip of my
|
|
drink. It's 5:48 AM. I know I have to get it together and get myself ready
|
|
to leave, but I find myself thinking about this whole situation I'm in. I
|
|
pick up the remote and see a woman babbling uncontrollably on Channel 3. I
|
|
never quite understood why these morons think it's good to know how goddamned
|
|
fucked up the world is. I live with a daily reminder, myself, every single
|
|
day.
|
|
|
|
Ironic, isn't it, that when things are so dismal and hate-filled, people
|
|
still believe my decoys that I'm alright. I am a master at being a coward,
|
|
not able to face up to my own problems, watching them fester and bubble
|
|
before my own eyes. I need something to prevent people from giving me
|
|
attention about this, and so I mask everything. Occasionally, when I
|
|
need to let some of this out, I write a letter, a poem, a song. An outlet
|
|
is all it is. A temporary remedy. Trick stitches.
|
|
|
|
Clothes are strewn across my bedroom. The television plays a classical tune
|
|
on a commercial for a car. The light hum of the computer underlies
|
|
everything. It is the answer. I realize that I am not as good a friend as I
|
|
would like to be. I realize that my music, no matter how much potential
|
|
people say, will never be what I want. I realize that the poems are just
|
|
scribbles on a cheap notebook.
|
|
|
|
Suddenly, a flow of data fills my mind, and I experience the beauty of the
|
|
machine. The soothing sound of connecting modems fills my head, and I grin.
|
|
I maniacally type at the keyboard, feeding my addiction with every movement.
|
|
I continue the entry into the system for a while and decide to log out. What
|
|
I am is an addict. There is no way out because it is the way in which I best
|
|
express how I feel, in some odd, twisted way. "Normal" life has abandoned me,
|
|
exiled me. And here I stand, an advocate of the computer underground. Here,
|
|
because when there is a learning process going on, pain can seem distant.
|
|
The terrible cough, the emotional anguish, seems to be blocked out. And
|
|
they call us criminals. If they would even attempt to understand the motives
|
|
behind the movement, they may play a different tune. Besides, they all come
|
|
from a social-friendly world, where they can get along with people. They
|
|
didn't need to mask their feelings because there were none there in the
|
|
first place.
|
|
|
|
The funny thing is, I used to be so naieve as to believe that someday I could
|
|
actually become happy. Ridiculous. I see people all around me, an image of
|
|
what I think "happiness" should be. Laughing, talking with friends, holding
|
|
hands with a significant other. All of these I've experienced. Nothing
|
|
lasts. The world will always leave you like a cold rat dying on the rotting
|
|
tiles of floor. Grasping, trying to hold on to something so that you won't
|
|
feel so goddamned empty and feeble as you slowly snuff it.
|
|
|
|
I get up from my desk, click off the television, and turn on the stereo. A
|
|
beautifully dark tune plays the soundtrack for my thoughts. The organs and
|
|
guitars entrance me. Thoughts of loves gone and past fill my mind. No
|
|
matter now, though. The only thing to cure this is to make myself numb.
|
|
Stop thinking about it.
|
|
|
|
It's 6:12 AM now. Almost time to straighten up and get ready. I get a quick
|
|
shower, eat some stale toast and butter, and head back to my bedroom. A
|
|
track from a gothic band is playing in my room, carrying a haunting melody.
|
|
It makes me grin. I grin because they all don't understand the beauty of
|
|
sorrow, once it has been cultured. It's like a thorn in a rose. It hurts,
|
|
but retains beauty.
|
|
|
|
Beauty is a strange thing, isn't it? Art or music that some find repulsive, I
|
|
take pleasure in experiencing. The fact that real feeling was put into the
|
|
canvas, raw emotion was pounded out on a TR101 synthesizer. Of course,
|
|
beauty also exists in the penetrated computer system. My challenges derived
|
|
from that are all worth it in the end. My masterpiece has been in progress
|
|
for over two years now. No one knows for sure how long it will last. All
|
|
I know is that as long as the challenge remains, beauty will still emanate
|
|
from me.
|
|
|
|
I finish my drink and lower my head. An abrupt coughing fit starts up. Time
|
|
to face the world again.
|
|
|
|
|
|
-- Mordeth
|
|
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
= Questions, Comments, Bitches, Ideas, Rants, Death Threats, Submissions =
|
|
= Mail: jericho@dimensional.com (Mail is welcomed) =
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
= To receive new issues through mail, mail jericho@dimensional.com with =
|
|
= "subscribe fuck". If you do not have FTP access and would like back =
|
|
= issues, send a list of any missing issues and they will be mailed. =
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
= AnonFTP FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK =
|
|
= FTP.SEKURITY.ORG/pub/zines/fucked.up.college.kids =
|
|
= FTP.GIGA.OR.AT/pub/hackers/zines/FUCK =
|
|
= FTP.ETEXT.ORG/pub/Zines/FUCK =
|
|
= WWW http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho =
|
|
= http://www.reps.net/~krypt/fuck.html =
|
|
= http://www.simunye.com/fuck =
|
|
= http://www.dis.org/se7en/fuck =
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
= (c) Copyright. All files copyright by the original author. =
|
|
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
|
|
|