Wired magazine asked writers of various genre and of various media to emulate Ernest Hemingway’s six-word story (“For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”).
Two outstanding ones:
Joss Whedon: “Gown removed carelessly. Head, less so.”
Margaret Atwood: “Longed for him. Got him. Shit.”
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Posted by niksosf
If there was a line on a piece of paper, you would look at it. Why not the blank?
I focus. I linearize. I prejudice. I have the built-in mechanism to construct the bell.
I know this way is doomed to fail within certain extent, but it is the best I have, it is also the only one I have. There’s no choice. Is there?
But the opposite cannot survive without it, either.
It is overwhelming. I couldn’t have survived three minutes without incessantly constructing them. How confident that my heart shall beat, my lung breathe, air flows, laws obeyed…
There is no winning for either side. Or losing.
So it is trifling.
Linearity must fail. Chaos must fail, too.
But there is a problem. There is a surprise.
I am here.
I really am.
Say I could solve any problems if I wanted to – I saw a problem, I improved something, I solved it, then I met another problem on another level, I improved something, I solved it…
But that line on the piece of paper does exist.
So there’s more to say. There’s always more to say.
There is ying and yang. And it is impossible to purify a cup of water.
In between two stars, there is always a third one.
Something breaks, something emerges, as we zoom.
The opposite sees the same pattern.
They cannot exist without me.
I am the smoking gun.
So why am I needed?
Wanna explain why the line is there for me?
Survival?
Posted by niksosf 