Post by Jack of Blades on Apr 11, 2007 14:29:28 GMT -5
There is an old saying that proves particularly prevalent today. It's one of those mottoes that tired office workers have adorned on some novelty item used to individualize their cubicle. "The journey is more important than the destination." Of course, each corny meme, each saccharine moral has to derive from some form of fact. My journey is over and my destination unappealing.
Perhaps I'm being too indirect and superfluous. I wouldn't want Creeping Death to create another article depicting my crypticism as baffling to the common mind. Think of this way. You Americans love space. Right? As if you haven't fucked up your patch of land enough, you now have the burning desire to do it to the cosmos and the kindly octopus-race of Pexifon VI. But, what really made it exciting was the race to the finish. Trying to outdo the communists in your venture to the big black veil. It was a necessary and revolutionary time. And then, when you got up there, you realized it was nothing but chalk and dust.
This title. I was about to write 'this title around my waist.' But it's not. I don't even know where it is. I don't care. It doesn't do anything for me. I thought that on my possession of it, I would feel something close to happiness. I even brought in that now-redundant belle of mine to prevent such an incident. But when I did finally lift the title over Logan's wasted body, all I felt was complete tedium.
The adventure had ended. As much as it pains me to acknowledge this, I was slightly flattered by the compliments. The praise that was showered on me from different sources. Who wouldn't be? Even the most aberrant need props.
But now, they don't look at me in the same fashion. All they see is that belt around my waist. No opportunity, no personality. I'm the apex, the point of least form. As soon as the third palm hit the mat at One, I became a cipher. There is no value in my defence for my achievements have been proven.
And thus, we move onto Skyler and what I did. You know, after someone does repeatedly try to cave in your cranium with the utilization of a sledgehammer, you do gain a degree of respect for them. And that's why he lies in some unknown place, licking his wounds. If he were to win the title, he'd just become another purposeful ghost. You can call it Jack at his most sentimental, you can call it a vain champion trying to retain his trophy, but those who have wrapped the gold around them will know what I say as true. And to those who haven't? Don't worry, you will.
Perhaps I'm being too indirect and superfluous. I wouldn't want Creeping Death to create another article depicting my crypticism as baffling to the common mind. Think of this way. You Americans love space. Right? As if you haven't fucked up your patch of land enough, you now have the burning desire to do it to the cosmos and the kindly octopus-race of Pexifon VI. But, what really made it exciting was the race to the finish. Trying to outdo the communists in your venture to the big black veil. It was a necessary and revolutionary time. And then, when you got up there, you realized it was nothing but chalk and dust.
This title. I was about to write 'this title around my waist.' But it's not. I don't even know where it is. I don't care. It doesn't do anything for me. I thought that on my possession of it, I would feel something close to happiness. I even brought in that now-redundant belle of mine to prevent such an incident. But when I did finally lift the title over Logan's wasted body, all I felt was complete tedium.
The adventure had ended. As much as it pains me to acknowledge this, I was slightly flattered by the compliments. The praise that was showered on me from different sources. Who wouldn't be? Even the most aberrant need props.
But now, they don't look at me in the same fashion. All they see is that belt around my waist. No opportunity, no personality. I'm the apex, the point of least form. As soon as the third palm hit the mat at One, I became a cipher. There is no value in my defence for my achievements have been proven.
And thus, we move onto Skyler and what I did. You know, after someone does repeatedly try to cave in your cranium with the utilization of a sledgehammer, you do gain a degree of respect for them. And that's why he lies in some unknown place, licking his wounds. If he were to win the title, he'd just become another purposeful ghost. You can call it Jack at his most sentimental, you can call it a vain champion trying to retain his trophy, but those who have wrapped the gold around them will know what I say as true. And to those who haven't? Don't worry, you will.
