Psyche: An Introduction

Hello folks! I'm just showing off my writing skills. Do tell me what you think of the idea. Now I don't know what it is. And plus not all of it is in compilation. But here's what I can provide. I have been forming this idea for some time. Waiting it to be big. For more on the same, check out my post, Smoke: A chapter preview. It's pretty much part of a same. Apart from The Writer, it's another one of the narratives of my alter egos. Hope you enjoy it.

She took two steps back. It was the familiar pain. The usual peanut butter textures. After all, it was an intelligible thought to not stop for water… But she had an excuse. Training one to be self sustainable wasn’t easy. As long as it was possible, it won’t stop her from trying. We are caught in a time which is the doom. The earth is paved with the remains of once silicon kingdom. Human race degraded its intellect much before than it was supposed to. Why was she left out? She loved to indulge in this stream of consciousness while doing her usual rounds.


“Hello, what do we have here?” she stopped at a sign, of a usual diner.

Her stomach made that peculiar sound again. “Okay, okay. Be quiet. I’m going,” she spake to herself in a manner as one would to a nagging persistence. She went in a diner. The diners of this era are pretty much of the diners as known in the twentieth and early twenty first century. Except for the services are robotic. Under the new law, only robots can be in service lines. Humans only do programming. The law was aimed to stop the corruption of robots and also to avoid the imperfection of human kind. But there wasn’t any law for the hooligans to stop behaving stupidly. How she hated life.

This one robot was primitive. A head which was pretty much like the television sets of the earliest kind, bearing a photo of someone she read about… a certain Martin Luther King Jr. What she could infer was that this robot was one of the recreation projects. She ordered a glass of water and a loaf of bread, gave a payment of a hundred scores, took a book from her bag and started reading it. A gentleman, with looks of a student, noticed the book.

“Excuse me, but what is this?” asked he.

“A book,” she replied without looking up. She wasn’t interested in conversations, especially not with strangers, especially when she was out on business.

“What is a book? Never have I seen one.”

“In earlier human times books were prominent. They were a means of transfer of knowledge, and things.”

“Such massive size… it must contain quite much!” he commented upon the length and breadth of it.

“On the contrary,” she smiled, forcing herself to a conversation, “just a little amount of what your reader can provide.”

“NO! Really?!” he spake in amazement.

“Evolution of information didn’t take place in a day,” she said. Finally, this conversation could close.

“Can I touch it?”

“Alright,” she said, handing over the book, adding, “be sure not to pull the pages or force them to fold. It’s very delicate.”

“Yes, I see,” he said, observing the mechanism of turning a page. “It’s strange. Didn’t they feel that sliding, or some such would be easier?”

“They did have scrolls back then… But they were too cumbersome. Books were easiest to carry.”

“What is this made of?”

“Trees,” she replied. The moment she replied, she could feel the pain of being plunged to another conversation. Now she’d have to explain what trees are.

“Trees… I have heard the word. It’s the first oxygen filter… Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said, “they also had other uses.”

“Maybe that’s why they were cut down…” he could sense the stupidity of human race. “I’m Vincent Von Taylor,” he introduced himself to her.

“Psyche Von Fedora,” she replied telling her name.

And such is the streamline of thought. Waiting for criticism.

PEACE!

-Neetz

Smoke: A chapter preview.

Hello Folks! Off lately, I've been kind of preoccupied. In a way porcupine(d). Anyway, bad jokes apart. It's been some months since I have written anything at all. Lets see what all have you guys missed out. My travel, my remnants, a few ramblings, a delusion. In short, you, my dear audience haven't missed a thing! Currently I'm still too busy to give my best work as of now. But I know what's it gonna be like. Here's a glimpse of it:-

Smoke. The deep vapour. Light and heavy. Inside and out. Something like myself. Smoke. I remember seeing you in November, diffused in the mist, playing hide and seek. I remember you, clear as I remembered myself this morning. Smoke. Part of you lies in my veins. Mingled with my tension. Smoke. Part of you is in my head. Covering my mind; a cloud of delusion. My blanket of comfort. Smoke. Save me the winter that never seems to end, I've been here all along. Fighting my way in and out of emotions. Sometimes, there's an occasional knock on the door, and yet I don't care to answer. After all, there's nobody home.

Once they all lined up to see me. Smoke. The cruisers back in my hey day were more likely to be the ones dropping me home than the occasional walk. I remember as a child, once I felt light when my parents would toss me in the air only to catch me again. Guess I've been high ever since. Smoke. My head always feels twice it's size if I go out without you. But I swear, that I'm glad it feels like something at all.

Once I met a man who would want that happy news that I never gave. I guess I've got my set of things to regret. But, hey! Didn't they all want a happy news? Smoke. They still do, you know. But I'd choose better than to stick around. In my country home, the roads are more welcoming than in that bustling beast of a city life. Fast lanes are not for me. I realised that years ago.

It's always about mean reds, bad hair days, some people you meet (most of which you forget), and yet the rants of seclusion continue. Non je ne regrette rien. No, no regrets. Just smoke.

You burn out now. Smoke. Faster than myself. Heavier than what I can ever be. Smelling like who you are. Fire. And out of my window. This streamline of thought. And I burn in you all that I have got. Smoke. Smoke rising from the remains of the diaries I've written, from the life I led, from the person I was, from the one I run away, from the questions I refuse to answer, from pictures of old flames (now enveloped with flames), from... Smoke.

He did say,

"Happiness is a thing of a past, and a hope of tomorrow."

And after I've killed my own past, it's the high that rises higher than the smoke itself.

And who thought that you need a cigarette to smoke?

And such is the streamline of thought. No, I'm not doing a female version of Ulysses. Things like that are best respected unrepeated. Do rate and comment. Till then,

PEACE! ~_^

Neetzi