A snapshot of the automation of human life

In the subtle mind of a blanc scene
lost in time
no period no judgment
the nihilist is called ian
his name ressonates equal to his peers and to all.

The man and woman,
both normal, standing in the far relative distance blank-
"not knowing they're closer than they thought".
Some derive great stories about their adventures of blank, stiff stories to me, judgment of others mostly.
Complaints to crank the handle of the dynamo powering the lightbulb,
waiting to die in syncronization with another.
The two people stand hand in hand, lost in each other's company.
Whilst stating each others love, they both hail judgement.

A small whimp down the time stream of blanc avenir...
we unjudgementally see,

The moral freak's they've come to be,
not concerned with what they see,
only looking at how they're king.
King of the morals shall I say,
no transvaluing,
no life,
only blanc motif, no inner transgression, a light that shines brighter as long as it thinks it shines bright.
But forever evolving,
into a light with no florecense.  

A monster is born. 

A quiet anger- a figurative story, written in 2012 june*

Life on the run. The Maxis network leaking bars till zero on a phone. Sweaty palms that had once felt no juice leaking during a session of mittyesque felt anger like no other. Gripping the phone tightly on the right. Sandbag on the left. Face so close to the effort of god, like mad he ran. Blip blop, Blip Blop, BLop BLOp... the slippers continue to run down the alley. His heart out of his chest yet? No, he's brave and warrior like. Bangs and plops contrast each other as they ring broken fine china-ware, the brittle ceramic dropping mirrors the gas pipe that just popped open and ignited. Time is starting to slip, the running is starting to rip out of the present, automation is starting to kick in, hope is already lost.

The child goes out with a bang. No finale, one last joke for the comedian. It Drops dead on its knees with no history left, it's soul rising up out of his body with all memories. Only it's body is left, surely he's gone to a better place. Maybe he's gone to a place where I am right now. I am in a place where the observer observes only, and cannot touch those that do not perceive.

Jaime stood angry over the Malaysian boy who was once called a smart aleck. Some blood drooling down with spitfire red guts leaking out, intestines hanging out like those party banners the impoverished child probably wished for one day at his first birthday party. Non the less, the child died kneeling with two shattered knee caps that bent flat to the stiff unforgiving tarmac. All neo-noir to Jaime, it was all in black and white. No love, just a bunch of red and dead eyes looking back at him.

A gang of black shadows approach the Malaysian boy, two tommy guns, tow machetes, definitely not a royal flush, just a bunch of lowlives in suites. Probably the Yakuza's south east asian branch. They approach the boy, bag him up, ready for the feast.

The black shadows enter the halls of valhalla, drop the the boy off. With two tables separating the position in which the boy was at, he was left kneeling and dead. The vikings and all the foot soldiers didn't stop to turn for the boy. The boy wasn't there at all, it was as though he was in the position of life, yet dead in nature. He was there, but nobody reacted, it was the butterfly effect that everyone talked about that didn't really matter. Nothing mattered in valhalla, and so the boy wasn't noticed, there was no refuge.

"Good morning mum"- WAKE UP. OMG it's just a dream.... WAKE UP!!!! WAKE UPPP

A sentimental heart. The analysis of why one does things.

I've always wondered what love was. I've always thought of what love was. I've always ended up with a bunch of love at the end.
It seems that when a bunch of blokes like me starts to judge women, or girls on a 1 to 10 scale, it gets me riled up. Of course I follow along because I adapt, I don't want to crush anybody's mind or heart for the sake of it, they're my friends. I feel quite bad, to be honest, I'm personally not the best looking person, probably at the bad end of the scale. I feel as though I have a be the underdog and support all the ugly bastards in this world. I've got a tick a humour left in me, yes! I am an ugly bastard. The problem with rating the girls was, I of course was in no place to judge because I only had a distorted view of what social status each person had in the school. The premise was good looks and bang-ability to us guys. As I'm still a virgin, I will literally fuck and tear up anyones pussy if they're cool people. Maybe not as rough as the diction implies, but if you were to analogise it, this would be it "If my dick could go through a cool bottle, I would". The bottle illustrates the lowest form of endoxa may see as unattractive people.  It's not as though I'm going to imagine myself in every scenario with every other girl... that just isn't the case. Me liking this little chat? Not at all. I'm someone of sentiment, people are simple in the form they take, but they're simpler when you get to know them. There are only a few, those who don't give a shit about what others say, those people are a tad bit more complex. I love those people, and I call them dynamic characters. Dynamic characters are those who follow principles, who follow some weird code, but in some sense they don't change. It's like a rock nailed to the bottom of the ocean, then waves are constantly crashing onto the rock, smoothening the rock slowly, but yet it's inner form doesn't change. This is of course the nails pinning the rock to the ocean don't come loose and remain fixed.

With the rock in mind, there is this selfishness which I see in myself. Every time I see a hot girl, sometimes I would imagine my life with them in the future. A hot brunette, slowly walking towards me, steps tip toed out of the pool, dusting the water off her gangly legs. Well basically she then makes out with me, and we make love. I hate those segments of imagination... they remind me of sticking my phallus into her vagina or mouth or whatever hole I can find. Potted plant? I constantly remind myself I'm in a horny daydream scenario. It's like a movie playing but with a liquid stamp saying "Horny- Motherfucker".

In that selfishness comes love. I've always wondered what the difference between love and respect was. See the problem was with me, I use to like this super cool french girl but she didn't like me back. It was ok, but I really liked her. It was an obsessive lop sided relationship, like a happy meal next to a gourmet burger (even though the happy meal has a toy, the happy meal does not have the advantage in this specific case, to be honest I'd prefer a happy meal sometimes because of the toy). I think it was extremely selfish, and it wasn't love. Although at that time I would've called it love because it felt like a jerk in the heart, like a really painful heart attack. Her not liking me, and me liking her made me like her more, I mean that wasn't the case but I'm just here attempting to illustrate the painful heart attack. There's this feeling, it's a variation of an adrenaline rush, it zones me out the past and creates this world of wonder, it's as though I'm in the new present. And it's great because this feeling was just what it was, it was the shit, I've always harnessed this feeling to give that euphoric boost. Perhaps love is something else, more complex in nature, but never possessed by anybody. I think love is the intimate respect for another's wishes, a union between two people. The best reference I would I like to draw this to is Pacific Rim, it's like the two hemispheres coming together into one mind. Love is the faith of another's choices, I suppose one person has the gut "feeling" of connection is because of trust embedded in another. This is not always true because I can anticipate what people are going to do etc. Love to me seems like others are willing to take their partner's existence as almost equal to theirs. You trust another so much that your willing to take a leap of faith, losing the idea of the possibility that your wife is not a robot and the entire human race is still attached to that probability.

What am I rambling about? Probably my dick entering a vagina... and me having to be nicer to people. But I am nice... but maybe I'm a bit hostile, which is a true fact. I'm vigilant... or just a giant dickhead.

I create a realistic scenario, I think of the morning after I have with a girl. I wake up next to a girl and I feel connected to her because of the shared love making. Whether or not it was bad, I don't know, but I assume i have a good time. She wakes up and there's just the "present", no time distortions, just "now". But when creating this scenario, the fact will probably be, two of the partners will not wake up at the same time, one will probably be farting his (I mean I probably) ass off and another will probably leave and make breakfast then go mountain biking (because mountain biking is fun). I'm just trying to say in this paragraph that I have no clue what love feels like, and most likely will never feel it. I do feel love, but that feeling's just overrated. I feel as though I want adventure and spirit, and maybe someone who I can share it with, I want to discover. My deepest desire is the love of creation... which is unlike others who want couples and hot girls. I do want a lady to make love to, but there's this inner sociopath that wants to tell the whole world to fuck off. I don't want the world to fuck off though, I'm scared of the love that'll be lose, between family friends and those that I hold dearest. I don't have many friends, because people are starting to get their own lives, people want to do adult things. People want to gossip and talk shit about other people, which doesn't interest me. People want to settle down and be rich-asses and do nothing all their lives. Maybe I just want to be loved? It would be nice wouldn't it, but it would be bad if that person restricted me.

I dream of desserts and deserts both. Adventure and food. Me making food for people so they can taste my experiences and craft. Adventure for the selfish soul, looking for new worlds and terrain to see.

I've written to much crap over the years, yet I've deleted many online and on my computer. I'm always embarrassed, maybe this'll go down. Maybe i'll deteriorate and turn into a singularity, then poof, I'm gone.

When I pissed in the snow- poem!

When I pissed in the snow- Ian Chan

In death's final days,
the divine madness seeps in.
The poet pays the price,
Plato observes and sighs.
No beauty, no aesthetic, just spin.
To lean beside the lonely
it's all I have.

Family members gather to be blocked out- the ghosts
arrive within. Lonely begins.

Winter's weathered soul, chill until the end,
the cold seeps in, one last attempt to...
tell everyone of fuck-off!
The drama turns pragmatic,
with a dry, shuddering death boner,
filled with excitement and awe.

The madness is embraced,
an outlook is lost.
One last coup de grace for tribute
of the dead.
Summer just lost its memory,
of when I pissed in Winter's snow.