to go down

my guess is, i'm so pessimist that i can't stand others like me, which is weird and somewhat ironic. still, some people can really get on my nerves.

down the scarlet path

Day was dawning in the Tirisfal Glades, up in the northern lands of Lordaeron. To the East, beyond the woods and even beyond the wasted Plaguelands, the sun was making its early morning appearance in the already blue sky. Long ago, before the last invasion, the plague, the undead and the fall of both Lordaeron and Dalaran, such a bright dawn break would augur a peaceful day. Birds would perch on the treetops singing their joyful songs praising the warm morning sun. The local farmers would continue to harvest their crops, for the summer was reaching its end and soon, all trees would have their leaves painted in crimson; the days would become shorter, and the wind would make them be colder and colder.
But that was before all that had befallen on those northern lands. The undead invasion had ravaged everything north of the Alterac Mountains. Farms have been corrupted to spread a deadly plague that ultimately turned the hapless inhabitants of those lands in unliving soldiers that hungered for human flesh and blood. The farmers had been slaughtered one by one, and turned into undead horrors. The birds fled from those cursed lands, seeking refugee somewhere else far away as the forests darkened and its creatures were driven insane. Villages have been pillaged and burned to ashes. Bigger cities, such as Andorhal, Caer Darrow or Stratholme had known no better fate. And even Lordaeron’s capital city, by the tranquil shores of Lordamere Lake, had fallen under the deadly sway of the mad prince Arthas and transformed into an undead bastion of evil.
And since then, the once green and peaceful glades of Tirisfal had turned silent, cold, and dark. Corrupted.
But that had been a long time ago, thought Malian, as his group walked silently in the woods. Yet he couldn’t let his ghosts go away. They refused to go. And they followed him everywhere he went, as a shadow of the dire past he tried to forget every day.
(...)

this is the beginning of a tale i've started to write some time ago, based in the lore of world of warcraft, the massive multiplayer online role-play game that takes over so many hours of my daily life. i've stopped writing it, and i don't know why. someone please remind me to quit the slacking and get back to work.

time

the hour changes suck so much...

responsability

it's funny. i've always heard people say that i'm too distracted and that i lack the sense of responsability. i acknowledge that - in fact, i hate responsabilities. i despise the notion of having to be somewhere at sometime to do something for someone. paying my rent or my bills? i'd always forget those if i was living alone.

even so, i really believe that i have quite a deal of sense of responsability. it was a very valuable lesson i've learned when i was in the highschool, with the best teacher i've ever had. he used to say that we, human beings, are free to live our lives as we want to, and that during that process of living, we inevitabily face choices. that being responsible was less a matter of paying our bills in time, but to assume that we could forget to do that, and to embrace the consequences of our actions. to assume that one had failed, and to be ready to endure the consequences of that failure, was everything it takes to define someone as responsible.

and this, to be honest, i can do pretty well.

get away with it

it doesn't really matter if one is a son of a bitch. to get away with it, it's just needed to meet the right people and get along with them.

stockholm syndrome

means, in this case, that even though you have taken me - my heart, whatever - as hostage, and put me - it - in a painful situation, i nonetheless have feelings towards you. feelings that are not bound to hatred, as they might. as they should.

the end means little for some things

still, there are somethings that must never be forgotter, that must never be lost. there are somethings of which we shall never give up, no matter what. there are some tales that must find their own end, no matter when. and i have broken too many promises already. this one i won't break, even if it takes my whole life.

the last time

i won't stand in your way,
let your hatred grow.
and she'll scream and she'll shout
and she'll pray
and she had a name,
yeah, she had a name.

i won't hold you back.
let your anger rise.
and we'll fly and we'll fall and we'll burn,
no one will recall, no one will recall.

this is the last time i'll abandon you,
and this is
the last time i'll forget you.
i wish i could...

look to the stars,
let hope burn in your eyes.
and we'll love and we'll hate and we'll die,
all to no avail, all to no avail.

this is the last time i'll abandon you,
and this is
the last time i'll forget you.
i wish i could...

| muse, stockholm syndrome, absolution |

the stockholm syndrome is a psychological response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage can show signs of having feelings of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger (or at least risk) in which the hostage has been placed. (...) the syndrome is named after the norrmalmstorg robbery of kreditbanken at norrmalmstorg, stockholm, sweden, in which the bank robbers held bank employees hostage from august 23 to august 28 in 1973. in this case, the victims became emotionally attached to their victimizers, and even defended their captors after they were freed from their six-day ordeal. the termstockholm syndrome was chosen by the criminologist and psychiatrist nils bejerot, who assisted the police during the robbery, and referred to the syndrome in a news broadcast. [in wikipedia]

and now, a dark truth before bed time (which is long overdue)

the most painful way of missing someone is to be sitting right next to her aware that she will never be mine again.

and with all the cold outside - and inside -, only now i realise that the last day of winter is gone. spring's here. oh, the joy - and who the hell gives a fuck about spring anyway? have a good night - or morning, whatever.

oh, the nostalgia...

i still remember the first time i used a computer. someone in my homeland, around eleven years ago, had the idea of using the computers of the informatics classes that were taking place at the evening in the town hall to entertain the kids - like me, mind you -during those hot summer afternoons. i remember entering the room along with an old friend and picking the only computer that seemed interesting - the one where someone had forgotten to quit duke nukem. the first videogame i ever played on a computer (had watched my friend playing doom on his aunt's pc, so i knew the type). i remember that the lady in charge of us tried to make us write in the computer and to do other crap like that - and we did it, faster than anyone else, only to be back to our game. oh, the good times (if i ever tell anyone again that i have no good memories from my childhood, slap me in my face twice and remember me of the month i spent kicking, shooting, shrinking, freezing and nuking to oblivious the nefarious aliens that had invaded los angeles and turned nice whores into slaves). oh, the gore.

duke nukem was also the first game i bought when i finally got a playstation - seems an eternity ago (aging is restless). it gave me a lot of good moments - discovering the secrets, finally finding the solution for the first level of the fourth area, nightmare zone - trully a nightmare for over two years. of course, it is a basic game, an old game that, just like many others, rocked when they were released, but now are relics of the past, as the technology improved and games better in every way came out. still, sometimes i still miss playing it, to scatter alien guts with the devastator's rapid fire while duke - good old duke -kept saying those evil dead-like punchlines.

hail to the king, baby!

at last

one year waiting for this - for the time when joan vinge's first chapter of cat's saga was out of out-of-print status. already ordered on my regular bookshop, now two, three weeks of waiting. i don't know anything about the story, but the mere fact that it has been writen by the same mind that gave me the snow queen, world's end, the summer quen and tangled up in blue is promising enough. well, even though the current times are somewhat dark for me, it seems that there are some gains from our losses (even if not related at all, who cares anyway?). i just hope there will be some rights - any right - from my wrongs.

you are so right, my friend...

life is so good and so cruel. that it is, that it is.

for fuck's sake, i ain't no bloody jesus fucking christ....

the only veredict is vengeance, a vendetta

revenge might well leave a somewhat bitter taste in the mouth, but that's better than no taste at all. especially when the target of our wrath seems so helpless...

times of war

oh no, no, the war wasn't over when that door closed. in fact, that was when the war truly started.

and because it isn't all doom and gloom...

i probably owe my life - as i know it in the present - to these books. mostly to that one in the front, the brothers' war, exceptionally writen by jeff grubb. i read it in the first year of highschool, around seven, eight years ago, and it's still my favourite book ever. even though in the meanwhile i've read tolkien, pullman or vinge - our favourite books are not necessarily the better, rather those who can tell us more than the story writen in its lines, page after page. by the time, i was introduced into the world of magic: the gathering - quite an interesting game, which sadly i have no time or money to play anymore. and as i dwelved deep into the game's mechanics and the wonderful card artwork, i became curious about its backstory. a friend of mine, my "magic teacher", lend me the book. by that time, it took me a fair amount of time to read it, as my english was not that great. but it was worth the time, it was worth every single word i had to look into the dictionary (and there were many, believe me). and then, bowed by that remarkable story, my interest in science fiction and fantasy words grew. also, as i got more magic: the gathering books, my english improved quite a lot, and if today i can write this blog in english, i can thank jeff grubb, j. robert king, lynn abbey and other writers of these fantastic universe created by wizards (the company and not real mages, mind you). being unemployed brings joys like these. even though i still have no money to play *cough cough*, i have plenty of time to re-read some of the most fascinatng books i've ever read. if i ever became a sf&f writer on my own account, i hope i can meet jeff grubb to thank him personally.

the other books in the picture are the sequels of the brothers' war in the artifacts cycle: planeswalker, by lynn abbey, time streams, by j. robert king, and bloodlines, by loren l. coleman. price is a bargain - around seven euros each.

"it is inevitable, mr. anderson"

(...)
persephone: (...) i'm so sick of his bullshit. on and on, pompous prick. a long time ago, when we first came here, it was so different. He was so different. (she turns to neo) he was like you. (pause) i'll give you what you want. but you have to give me something.
neo: what?
persephone: a kiss.
trinity: excuse me?
persephone: i want you to kiss me as if you were kissing her.
neo: why?
persephone: you love her. she loves you. it's all over you both. a long time ago, i knew what that felt like. i want to remember it. i want to sample it. that's all, just a sample.
trinity (drawing her gun and aiming at persephone): why don't you sample this instead?
morpheus: trinity.
persephone: such emotion over something so small. it's just a kiss.
neo: why should we trust you?
persephone: if i don't deliver you to the keymaker, she can kill me.
neo: all right.
persephone: but you have to make me believe i am her.
neo: all right.
(neo quickly kisses persephone)
persephone: terrible. forget it.
neo: wait. okay.
(neo kisses her again, this time in quite a passionate way - much for trinity's dismay, who can't look away)
persephone: ahh, yes. that's it. (she turns to trinity) i envy you. but such a thing is not meant to last.(...)

the matrix reloaded

good-bye

(...)
a voice broke through the ovation, a voice of a very old, very tired man. “she’s asking for you, gerrard.”
applauding agnate’s escape from a back stab, gerrard said distractedly, “who is?”
“hanna.”
wheeling, gerrard stared incredulously at the blind seer. “sh-she’s awake?”
the old man nodded, his face shadowed in the wide brim of his hat. “but not for too long.”
gerrard shoved his way across the deck. he reached the amidships hatch and descended. it took only moments to clamber down the stairs to the sick bay. it seemed hours. gerrard fairly vaulted across the room, falling to his knees at hanna’s side.
“you’re awake! hanna! you’re awake!”
she smiled a van smile through rictus lips. “the old man. he did something.”
“he’s healing you!” gerrard gasped, though even he knew this hope was false.
“no. he is letting us say good-bye.”
“don’t say that!”
despite the plague’s ravages, she was somehow beautiful in that moment. “i have to, and so do you.”
gerrard grasped her shoulders, felt only bones in his hands, and let go. “how can i live without you?”
“you lived without me for twenty-six years,” hanna said sadly. gerrard’s smile was rueful.
“we all remember how worthless i was then.”
a loud cheer shook the sands beyond the ship.
“what’s happening?”
“a duel,” gerrard said. “it’s nothing. someone lost his partner -”
“it’s a new world being born, gerrard,” hanna replied wistfully. “it’s a new world, and the partners of the old must say good-bye.”
“no.” his eyes glimmered intently. “no. i won’t say it.”
“then i will die without hearing it -”
“you won’t die. you can’t -”
“i can, and i will,” hanna said. her lids slid slowly down her blue eyes. “the old sage’s magic cannot last much longer. good-bye, gerrard.”
“i’ll say i love you. i’ll say you’re everything to me. but i won’t say -”
she trembled once last. her final breath left in a long, sweet sigh. an ovation roared through the heavens, shaking the ship’s vast beams.
“no, hanna,” gerrard groaned. he leaned over her, sliding his arms beneath her. a tear fell on white sheets. he lifted her. there was nothing in his arms, nothing at all. she was gone. “no, hanna. no. i won’t say it. i can’t say it.”
a voice came at the door – loud and exited, with a clear benalish accent.
“he’s done it! eladamri has bested the metathran!”
clutching that lifeless shell to his breast, gerrard whispered simply, “good-bye, hanna. good-bye.”

(j. robert king, invasion, chapter 29, “battles won and lost”, pages 241-242)

blur

thin is the line between love and hate. so thin that sometimes... it is too blurred for us to know in which side we are.

time

it's not like we don't know what the future will eventually bring us. we're merely playing with time.

duality

i simply love the people who keep their rooms (and their houses in general) in a mess everytime, but run to make their beds and to have everything clean and tidy when they're expecting a visit. as if they were affraid of their friends to know who they really were. oh, hipocrisy and duality are indeed two great things.

definitions (with my very special contribute)

some friends:

a common friend: eventually, would go and see me in jail.
a good friend: would conceive a diabolic plan to bail me out.
the best friend: would be sitting next to me and would say "we fucked up... but that shit was fun!"

taken from my good friend and something else i can't translate. kiss, hun*

a letter to a past friend

i remember my friend john - whom i have kept in low consideration for some years, but who has ever been a friend (i actually learn from my mistakes) -asking me once how did i manage, during high school, to have a girlfriend for so long and still be able to spend so many time with my friends, my fellows. i told him it wasn't really hard, it was merely a matter of will. i had a girlfriend, all right, but my friends were still my friends, and so i had to put some effort in getting time for everyone.

four years have passed, and i wish i could say the same about you. you, who I called my best friend for so long. you, with whom i shared so many moments, so many things. you, whom i used to trust more than everyone else. the thing is, i can't. we've been living together since we came to this city, and what moments have we shared? we went out together a couple of times during the first months, but then you met her - which is nonetheless a very nice girl (for the record, you're a lucky son of a bitch who actually got more than you deserved, but that's merely my humble opinion...) - and you forgot you had friends. you forgot about me. great timing - it happened exactly when i needed you the most. but you couldn't know, could you? you were living so deep inside your shiny bubble that you, all of a sudden, became oblivious to everything else.

when did you came back? oh, that's right, in that july morning. we were looking for a new place to live - well, i was looking, because you never lived there anyway - and you called me in the morning to meet you, so we could see, hopefully, our new house. i had gone out the night before, had got drunk as hell, and was in bed with one of the worse hang overs i've ever had. i could have turned you down, you know? i could have said "sorry, mate, i'm not up to get up right now, you do whatever you want to do, i'm going to live with my sister". but instead i got up, took a quick shower, two pills for the headache and went out. to meet you. and by doing it, i allowed you to officially live with your girlfriend, since i didn't mind sharing a house with you both. had i stood in bed and perhaps you both weren't still living together now. who knows?

and what you did in return? once you had what you wanted, you forgot again about me. it's funny to think about it - since we live together along with your girlfriend, she cares more about me than you actually do. i remember, for example, being her who asked me what was wrong when i broke up with my girl. where were you then? nowhere to be found, as ever. also, your girlfriend is much more honest than you - she has no problem staring into my eyes and yelling at me if i fail doing something around the house (which happens quite often, i'm aware that i'm far from being the perfect housemate). unlike you, for when you have something to say, even if you're totally right, you say it with half words while you're doing something else - and you never, ever look at me while doing it. as if you feared me.

it's a sad story, and could get much longer if only i had the time and the patience to keep writing. it's not over yet, but i think i know how it will end. one day i will eventually leave, finishing the cycle - and when i close the outside door for the very last time, you, who once have been my best friend, but as the time went by became merely a housemate, will be nothing but someone i used to know, someone who was a part of my past, but who belongs there for good. and from my part, when that time comes, when i close that god damned door for the very last time, no more words will be said between me and you, old friend. but hey, you will never know this, will you? you never had any real interested in anything i've ever written...

memories will not fade

hearing of your demise does not quite surprises me. you were old, after all, older than time as i knew it. your health was no longer the same - the strenght that i always saw on your thin figure, hardened by a long and tough life, vanished as the years went by. still, the ill news i hear on the phone opens a deep void in a place of my heart that i often ignore.

it's hard to remember you, you know? not because you weren't present; rather because you were so present for so long. in fact, whatever memory i pick from my childhood, you are there, in one way or another. i remember the farm that you used to take care of - where me and your grandson built a small cottage so we could spend our endless afternoons. or in that other farm, of your old friends, by the river - gods, so many adventures in those forests by the water, chasing wild animals and playing so many games... and the meals - my first wine, hardly forgotten. or your house, in that narrow street in the village, with the pictures of your family over the hall's table and the white cat - by the time, the only white cat in the whole village - sitting lazily by the fireplace in those longs winter nights...

you were always there. and, in many ways, you filled a part of the slot that my absent grandmothers have ever left empty. it had been a while since the last time i saw you, but in the end it changes nothing. you will be missed nonetheless.

i never thanked you for everything you meant to me. we never do. wish i could change that.

farewell, old friend. i will see you in heaven.

ctrl + alt + del

somehow i feel my life is in desperate need of a ctrl + alt + del keystroke, followed by a system restart and a full format. then i could reinstall it again and start if from the very ground zero.

the trick is to make more mistakes

there's a murphy's law for traffic accidents that's sadly true: when two cars colide because one of the drivers screws up, most of times this one ends up unscratched, while the one that had no fault at all suffers the most dire consequences. and this can be a metaphor for our life every time the shit hits the fan.

of trust

for your mental sanity's sake, make sure that you have a couple of reliable friends that would only meet by the most improbable of the chances - like, let's say, the probability that you have to not die, eventually. less than that, be sure that you'll be in trouble sooner or later.