Public

The Ghosts exist, though for what reason they do not know, as they blindly follow the steps of their Dance. Perhaps they once lived, yet due to the inescapable fact of their mortality they have become dead in all their past and future forms. Their lifeless Eyes, like mine yet unlike, stare straight through me. They call to my own Ghost, and it answers in my voice, yet not as I use it. I talk with the Ghosts, in shallow voices, share and spend time with them (how else can I spend it?). There is always a distance between us, for I am no Ghost. Yet my Skin fades, my Steps match those laid out for me and I listen to the Ghosts. My Shadow lengthens and I become my ghost.

A Visitor

Someone has found the site. It was only one hit, and lasted for 0 minutes, so it was most likely a bot or spider or something (I am not quite sure how these things work). If it was a person, I wonder what they thought. No-doubt they quickly skimmed the site and rapidly lost interest, realising that it was just another boring personal blog. One can hope though.

On another note, Google can't find the site. Half the fun in this thing is the fact that like minded people, searching through the piles of information dug up by Google, find my site amongst the crap. The bots work (as far as I can work out) by going from link to link, so perhaps if I link to another site, then travel along that link the bots may find me. It is so strange, trying to draw the attention of bits of automated code before I can draw human attention. Its worth a shot though.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/DVB-T
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hydrogen
http://www.ebay.com.au/
http://www.space.com/
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phosphorus
http://www.hm.com/
http://pra.aps.org/
http://www.r-project.org/
http://www.w3.org/WAI/WCAG1A-Conformance
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oxygen
http://www.harveycartel.org/metanet/n.html

Our Swinging Senses

In a world with neither purpose nor reason,
A Human Mind, desperate for both,
Contrives such falseties as
Good and Evil, Right and Wrong,
Which are all futile attempts to find Meaning,
Which is but a delusion of the desperate Mind.
The Human Mind was built to find excuses for living.

The Charade

My life plays out like a film before me,
As I watch, it seems so familiar.
Yet I cannot predict it
For I no longer fool myself that
It is Mine
All semblance of Control lost long ago.

My Afflictions

I am, as a person, nowhere near perfect. I want to talk about my shortcomings, whether this act itself demonstrates a deep seated lack of confidence inside me I am not sure. Does it mean anything? Obviously it indicates something, but this could be as trivial as a desperation to find things to write or something much more important. From your point of view however this is entirely irrelevant.

I am:

• Disappointingly lacking in confidence. I never say what I really think, or act how I really feel. In all social situations I have a mask which constricts my actions yet also forces me to act in a way more beneficial to myself socially in most circumstances. So basically I never act 'myself', due to a fear of exposing my true opinions to ridicule and attack. As such my 'friends' are a perfect match for my mask, yet I always feel I am missing something when with them.
• Both hopeful and hopeless. I will hope for something while at the same time pointing out all the problems in the way of that hope. I never achieve what I hope to, which is either due to a failing in myself or this mindset of failure.
• Ultimately two minded. While all my actions (as are all humans) are purely to satisfy my biological instincts, I will simultaneously consider things in a way ignoring these biological urges. So while a part of me considers the most effective way to meet women, I also think of how pointless it is. I want to meet women to reproduce, continue my genetic line, and for that reason alone. All notions of love and attraction I consider are just emotions engineered to make me reproduce. As just one in 6 billion, why even bother? Are my genes really all that superior to the other suitors of that woman?
  
• Alone. There is no other (known to me) I can share these thoughts with, indeed, many of my thoughts with. Partly the reason for this 'blog', this fact is probably the most crippling to my mind.
  

It Begins...

This seems kind of strange. I've never had a diary, or been even slightly interested in recording my thoughts. The idea of another reading them though has become curiously appealing. No doubt they will find no interest in them, yet there is always a chance another like-minded soul may stumble upon them. That is when this will get interesting.

I write this to the sound of thunder and rain, which seems fitting.

Mostly this will be a more permanent place to hide my ideas compared trying to keep the rapidly decaying things inside my head. Whether they are actually worth storing is debatable, yet thanks to the wonders of the Internet this debate never arises.

If you are reading this (which you obviously are, there is no if about it), then this text is no longer a dusty stored clump of words. It becomes a monologue as soon as these words find a listener, and a dialogue when you choose to comment. Of course, you may not even exist (why would anyone read my ramblings?) yet it comforts me to talk as if to someone.