Stasis

A Ponderance on Existence

Hoffman — Sat, 02 Aug 2008 11:25:50 +0000

I’ve began to suspect that this world isn’t real, not real at all. I think that what I perceive as the world around me, the people I interact with, and everything else, is just a figment of my imagination. Its not real, none of it. Not you, reading this; if even this text actually exists. Then again, it must do, because reality is what I perceive, is it not? This is a world of my design, after all.

For a long time I was puzzled by the fact that people would very often try to contact me at the exact time I woke up, or sat down in front of my computer. And I mean exactly then. And sure, it is just “coincidence,” right… Anyone with half a brain should know that coincidence can not, by its very nature, follow a clearly observable pattern. This would be very much against the very nature of those phenomena we deem as coincidental, or at least against the idea of coincidentality.

So, I put it to you, that I have ample evidence of not only the points mentioned above, but of other happenings that suggest that the world indeed revolves around me. And, being perhaps modest, I feel that the only reason that such an egocentric place could exist, would have to be due to the fact that it is a construct of my mind. At this moment I am still not sure if this construct is of my own design, or due to some outside influence.

However, if such outside influence does exist, it means that I must have a physical, corporeal form of some kind, outside of this perceived reality, or lack thereof. I shall endeavour to find out whether this be so, and also the purpose of such an exercise. I choose to disbelieve the illusion of this reali-

Making it difficult

Hoffman — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 22:51:30 +0000

Yes, I know it would have been just as easy to post them “backwards” so as to have them in the right order… I know. Shh.

To be honest, it doesn’t matter at this point what order they are in, since the whole grand scheme is still firmly in my head. I would appreciate comments, a few good ones, to offset the evil critique too.

I actually had some important reason for writing this post as well, but I seem to have spaced on it. I started thinking about how I am not happy with this layout at all, and everything else slipped my mind.

Anyway, must not have been that important, seeing as I forgot. I hope these pages are seen by people, without any sort of advertising. I hope you leave comments too, as I have said. I’ll try to write more, just in case someone happens to enjoy them.

I do hope you do!

Part the Third: Something in the Works…

Hoffman — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 22:37:56 +0000

Knives were the answer. Knives or coins; he was relatively sure the translation was one of the two. And the key of course, whatever it was, it had to be a key. But there were always two, weren’t there? And at least one had to be wrong. Like she had been. It shouldn’t take a genius to realize that wood didn’t hold out much chance against so much rock. Unfortunately for her, it was the rock that had taken the genius.
In the fifteen minutes that had passed since the last great revelation of the previous coffee break had been exhausted as a viable option to try in these circumstances, things did not look positive. The problem was the lack of evidence. That and the heat, no one could concentrate in this kind of heat. It was probably why so little was getting done. Not a lack of evidence at all, despite there being one.
Ten more seconds, that was all she would have needed, but the struts just wouldn’t hold. It was just as inevitable as trying to make a migraine go away by thinking about it a lot. Come to think of it, the migraine was probably making his life harder as well. He couldn’t blame himself, it wasn’t his fault, nor was there anything to be done at that point. But he was the only one he could blame, no one else was responsible for her. But she was gone, and nothing could bring her back now.
The key. Knives, lots of them everywhere, but which was the right one. Clues? No obvious ones, nothing highlighted, nothing eye-catching about any of them. How about coins then? There was only a single image of a coin in the room, it just had to be it. Interestingly, a slight serration on its edge seemed not too different from what one might find in a regular house key, except for it being in a circular formation.
But if he now had the key, where was the lock? And what lay behind it. Why was he even searching? He had no idea what he may find, that was why. Adventure. The whole point of searching, of discovery even, was adventure. Of course fame, riches and beautiful women helped too, but adventure was the driving force, it had to be. Beautiful women like her, poor her. Such a shame, such a waste, and why? Well, because of adventure.
But none of that mattered now, it was all irrelevant next to the rising water… And the scorpions, where did they come from?

Part the Second: Paranoia

Hoffman — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 22:30:40 +0000

As he neared the door, he noticed that both the match-stick and the bottle cap, that he had strategically placed to be dislodged if anyone so much as tried the handle, had been repositioned from where he had left them three hours earlier. He new this could mean only one thing, they had found him. There was no choice, no way of going back now. Nothing to be done. He turned around, ran to the car and sped away with all the speed he dared without arousing too much suspicion.
He could hardly believe it, but there could be no mistake, no one else would have even noticed the makeshift security measures, let alone fixed them back the way they had been… Almost the way they had been. A crucial error that had surely saved his life. Seven years it had been, seven years of relative peace. He had almost started to think that he was safe, but no. They were here, they were going through his possessions at this very moment no doubt, sifting through them for the three things they desired even more than to see him head.
His only consolation was that the items were safe from them, as was he. For the moment at least. He would never break under torture, but neither did he have any place to hide from them. Nowhere was safe from their eyes, from their spies. It would never end, and he knew it. He had to make a stand, here and now. It was the only hope he had left, take his secrets as well as however many of them that he could to the grave with him. But how could he hope to oppose them? How could anyone? No, there was only one thing to be done.
So he drove to the suspension bridge over the river, cleaned out the interior of his car into a bag, and tossed it as well as himself over the rail into the churning white rapids below. He smiled as the torrents enveloped him, and closed his secrets into their icy embrace.
Meanwhile the squirrel returned from its scavenging foray and brushed the debris at the foot of the door back into their original positions with its tail.
* * *
It only got truly interesting the next morning when the police fished out the grinning corpse of a man clutching at a bag of refuse.

Part the First: Sebalec

Hoffman — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 22:28:20 +0000

Sebalec was special. He was special, and he knew it. Not because anyone had ever really said he was special in any way…In fact, now that he thought about it, he was probably almost unique in the fact that not even his own mother had ever said he was “her special little boy” or any such thing mothers commonly say to reassure themselves that Their offspring are not as meaningless as all the other children.
He had known that he was special for as long as he remembered, not special in any specific way, at least to his knowledge, but just special. He was quite certain that he would be someone of significance, maybe not someone famous, someone remembered in history as a Great man, but someone who would change the world in some way. A man in the background, yet someone who made a true difference. Of this he was quite sure, confident even. He had been all his life, and had found no reason that could convince him otherwise, not yet at any rate.
He had, as a child, imagined that he might be a doctor or a researcher who was part of a team trying to find the cure to a dreadful disease. As the one who actually, perhaps even almost* by accident, found the missing key and thus solved the problem that had held them back for so long. Of course he would let the acclaim go to the whole team in general, and to the men with the money. That was the way things worked, he knew. He would not mind, because for him it was enough that he knew it had been His discovery that lead to the cure. He would know, just as he knew that he was special.
Unfortunately, as he lay there thinking, in a pool of his own life’s blood, feeling his strength fade away, he realized that he had been dead wrong. This was that reason, the idea came over him with a crushing force, pushing his last breath out of his body; a faint spiral of air in a dank back alley somewhere where even sunlight neglected to visit. Sebalec would never be special, never change the world in any special way. He would never achieve that personal satisfaction now, because he was dead.
* * *

* He did have give himself some credit and not let it be a fluke, of course.

Reasons and Excuses

Hoffman — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 22:22:52 +0000

Since I couldn’t think of anything else to use this blog for (there are enough actual “stasis”-styled meaningless life diaries floating around online as it is), I decided to just post a few short literary works I created a while back.

I doubt they will appeal to a very large number of people, but maybe a few individuals shall find brief entertainment from my scratchings. So, enjoy, those who will! (Please try to read the stories in order, beginning with Sebalec, then Paranoia and lastly Something in the Works, thanks!)

If you prefer reading about my trip to Australia in late 2007, feel free to have a look at Fourecks.

Oh, and just to help out a friend, if you happen to need a Finnish language project writer, please take a look at Raija Rautakoura.