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Micro-fiction

Webinstrospec

Log Entry: My sister sent me a documentary video about the negative side of the web; and as always, I was inspired to write my thoughts in a creative way.

When the web becomes an inspiring tool

I sit in front of my screen and wait. I wait for the likes and for the shares and for the positive comments. I had uploaded a selfie of mine earlier — perhaps to show my joy, or perhaps to have some celebrity love, or perhaps . . . I don’t even know why I do that! It became so mechanical over the time . . . now that I think about it . . .

The trees and the flowers they change colours and withers through the changes of the seasons, and I, I don’t even bother to look at their beauty anymore. The book covers on my shelves are clothed of smoky dust with aesthetic words that seem to get lost through the days, and I, I don’t even bother to read the pages. My pen . . . oh! you should see my pen, it sits lonely into the dusty pot with dried ink on its tip, and I, I don’t even care to let my words flee into the world. And the papers . . . well, they are all wrinkled now, and I, I don’t even bother embellishing them.

But still, I sit here and wait for the likes and the comments that will shatter my heart to pieces and hostage my mind for the days to come — or perhaps . . . thrill me with joy. But what kind of joy? Not natural, not true, fake, not mine . . . not mine.

Who sees me through my mirror? A mirror through which I can’t seem to look at myself anymore, and a mirror that my eyes skip so that others might give me value. What have I become? . . . Instead of valuing my self-worth I let others rate my own likes and dislikes. I have assassinated my own being and left my body and my own existence into the hands of others . . . careless, and not even being able to know their own self-worth through their own mirror. My soul, it cries — it cries for it has been scattered into every places and spaces where time seem to alleviate everything.

Was it loneliness? Was it a feeling of being misunderstood? Was it for frenziness? Or was it for escapism? But why and for what? And I wonder, I wonder why I wandered into this virtual space and lost my balance into this process of wandering into a web area where everything seemed new to my eyes, and where walking on web threads to reach a stranger nest for exchange seemed so thrilling, and I blame myself for my stupidity and ignorance, for no perfection exists. Chaos . . . chaos through my own ignorance.
But what if . . . what if I write about it into an online carnet . . . how do they call that again? . . . a blog, I think so . . . I love to write and I love to read, and I love everything visually aesthetic that triggers positive vibes in me . . . Oh these good vibes, how bad I miss these inspirational ambience. I think that perhaps I haven’t done it the right way, I was not enough balanced and mature, perhaps a broken piece lost into space and ghostly floating without purpose and meaning . . . ignorance. It hates chaos and likes order, sequence, process. But do I process . . . do I.
Look at the shadows of light dancing upon the ground as the wind blows away the window curtain. And the birds, hear how their singing echoes right straight to your heart. Oh the sun upon my skin . . . it warms me up. What are we without the beauty of nature? I have always wondered.

Process, sequence, action, reward.

But wait a second . . . just wait there, what if I created my own little creative webspace — there I will use the tools given, so as to show things of inspirational essence, things to inspire others to tap into the show off of their skills and purposes, and thus, we will all step into a winning system far away from the regression effect. I better invest myself into designations that will level me up towards higher purposes.

I will shed this horrible feeling of dissecting myself so as to make sense of who I really am. I will use this space wisely and integrate my own system to it so as to collide into a digital synergy on which I will be able to focalise positively.

. . . How uneasy it is to think of an idea, not saying difficult. However, it has to take place into mind . . . everything starts in the mind. Well now, let’s stop the daydreams and start the process of gestation, because if the subject of eternity can wait on its own, here, concrete time would prefer to devour us, so to speak.

-Eiravel-

By Eiravel

I am married, and I have two sons. I live on the island of Mauritius. I love to write fiction, poems, and blog. I've self-published a science-fiction book (Darcocyte). I aspire to make a living through my creative writings. I am a very passionate person. I love the sublime and the strange; and I am also interested in all types and forms of art that pleases my mind.

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