page a day...sort of

Hi my name is Prav and today I have decided to write a page a day.
Now this is going to be exciting and fun. Exciting because it’s a new thing, a new adventure and fun is because of the possibilities of being surprised. Atlest, I think those are my reasons for fun and excitement. Who would be my inspiration? Who do you think..? Maybe F W Dixon -- a pseudonym, nevertheless my first inspiration. Things are getting well and most of the time we are well. Don’t you think? Who would be next..likes of startreks and folklore with adventure… I guess who would be the writers and who would write stuff like that, what are their names…Well this is a very important point…I am more interested in the feel of a prose (I never studied poetry), than what are the characteristics of a good writer. Not thinking much- things should flow out. Things should be with heart, with adventure, with pathos.
         See, I Prav has semantic memory. In psychology, semantic memory is memory for meaning, in other words, the aspect of memory that preserves only the gist, the general significance, of remembered experience, is memory for the ephemeral details, the individual features, or the unique particulars of experience (wiki). Hence you see, I cannot recall, at least now I am going to turn 33, I cannot recall anything specifics. Maybe, I will, once I sober up. So, my point being this: I do not have any one person hat can lay any singular claim to being my inspiration.
After havin said that I would still say, people in general have inspired me with their writings.. writers of the new Yorker- the splendid detail that they go about writing. The rancouteuring, the phenomenal rancoteering. One of the good characteristics of writing – Non Hurried. I am not saying, nail biting, page turners are bad writing - They do have a place in our pathos, what I am saying is at least now I love new Yorker in its style, and I also love pageturners. So lets see, I want my writing to be both page turners and good describers.  Great I am already feeling well about this Endeavour. Now thing are good, things will get better. There are many things, now I am blanking, actually I am distracted. I am fucking distracted by what I have to do for others, especially my sibs…. It’s really getting on my nervervs. You see they hardly raise their finger for anything, and I am expected to do stuff for them. Which is of course tragic….now, did you notice this is a big monologue, that’s tragic, not it is not. This till now is a sort of an article about me writing. I can also change the form of writing, from a monologue to say a dialogue or a novel.  Alright then, what else, I am already feeling tired. See, I hate to make it a work. I do not have to prove anything, I do not have to meet expectation etc. I want to enjoy what I do without a desire fro praise. I just want to write. Great, writing is what it is Practice, practice, and practice. I have to write, just write.so let me do it.

Beginning
There was this life. No one could know it, or atleast no one understood it. he was called by different names…Dead man walking was one of them. No this is not a jail, nor this man was on gallows. Things are not that simple you see. Thing are neither black nor white. There are of course mixed race. But this life, or life form did not deal in real nor abstract concepts of race. It went and lived beyond it – at least in its thoughts. It relished and relied well on different thoughts from within. Now no life form can live from within; this life has gone beyond mere abstractions of reality. His concept of race was a universal brotherhood of the dead, and the alive. Now if I that sounds enigmatic, no one seems to have heard anything at all. What shall we call our protagonist. He did not want to be characterized by that one category. He thought to himself, What if, what if I am a she, that was his second thought. Now, it was early morning, the sun was rising over the valley. The valley itself was not as beautiful as before. As long as he could remember she thought she had seen many suns rising over his long life. He did not really despise the sudden heat. She thought, maybe this would be a new day. But he did not care. You see, the valley was beautiful in a way that only a cyborg with split personality could appreciate. There was a mile high mountains walls on each side – mountain of scarap metal- of dead stealths, and empty shells. Or as he/she would call – my hallow. That was the name of the palce as far as he can remember. His synaptic connections have been off on for a long time. He was happy that his memory was fading – he could forget about that needless skimirsh, atleast he thought that it started like that. atleast, that what his great grand father, or was it his grand father, told him that, and described it and worst of all downloaded his memory onto his listener. You see, he may be the 3rd or the 4th generational, generational-cyborg. There were some virgins left (that’s what his fellow cyborgs thought someone had said to his grand father.). virgins – fully humans. But even the cyborgs did not know where and when they existed. Its been a long, long time,. Many suns have risen and have extinguished.  Sun, not like the human sun, not at all like the solar sun.
It was getting late he thought. He yelled, ‘Maria what are you doing. I am late for work.’ Holmes shouted back., ‘maria has been dead for 124 years.’ Dankor! He exclaimed – the synapses again. He was still very much functional. He worked in the space dock # 9r345 – Ninth rudhrastra, node 445. the earth as we know had split into nine parts after the experiment, some say that it was just a minor skimarish that started it.

the end of the beginning.
What the dengoor!, he exclaimed. Maria, maria. He called twice after the figure that smiled and took the turn left, at the front of the sub-dock 4z3, just behind the HPI- halo public information. He saw her clearly as a cychild could see- exactly 20/20 vision in cyborg talk, even at 228 miles away. You see, The cychild starts out well, but by the time it gets to his age. The Venetian operability curve dictated that exactly 8.3. 10 e3 synapses would start failing, and that may result is some functional loss, but he did not lose his optic operability. Praise the Spirit, he thought to himself.  He ran the distance in less that 123 rudarashtar minutes. He did not care that 2 deep rivet halometo pins fell off, one at his old injury right under his left knee, and one from his right hip joint. He did not care his body was slowing down gradually without any replacement parts.  3 CIDS- cyber intersection distance stabilizers caught him speeding in a tango lanes (cyborgs connected with tractor beams on HOV lanes), and atleset a dozen of his mates proposed a instant citizen arrest after sending his pictures, speeding, using their optic cameras. Miss Jamizandra will not be please this time. Though she liked him a lot, she had reached her limit of PasioJus – a serotonin enhancers given to public servants once every week, directly fed into the cranium. All others got it once every year. After the experiment/skirmish, the cyborgs were effected first – a drastic increase in rage. One would think that some one here is mad– either the establishment, or Victor. But, victor did not care. Hey there, did you see a borg here with long blond hair, he called out to people around. No one replied. HPI was broadcasting a new feature being added to the security systems at the docks. The mutant attacks had increased over the last 89 years. But he had more important things on his mind now. He reached the entrance, which was unassuming and dull. The guards immediate raised their torches - Most cyborgs are so well grounded that electricity just passes through them as sludge on a ductor-biotissue M-8a, deep in the mines. Moreover, anything below Sub-AA132 caliber just dissolved in non critical parts. Unlike other cyborgs he knew, he did not have body armor in critical parts. It was illegal and expensive, but all the people that he knew had one, except, of course the temple priests. The body armor, was well camoed, beneath layers of bio tissue and level 1 ductors biotissue (the incessant rain never stoped, the best of the rain forests in all the galaxy were right in rudhrastra 9). Normal scans did not show them at all. Stand right there, where is your ID, the scanner does not recognize you as this sub-dock worker, one of the guard shouted.
Lower the torches, I am just a law abiding rudrastakar. He moved towards them limbing. They had they trigger on the torches – high intensity micro-proton beams hotter then the sun, clean through any cyborgs heart. Precise and deadly. They lowered their torches slowly after seeing his double anguish – physical pain and metal torment shown on his face. Have you seen a girl, I mean a cyborg with blond hair around 123 R-Mins ago? Victor asked. Then he sawthe dememory implants. They can only remember t-110 R-Mins. Never mind, and he turned and walked away. In exactly 110 steps he reached the intersection where he thought he saw maria make a left, from the view point from the hallow. He made a right; there were 4 wund-dogs, and few pekinese cats. His radar detected them all in less than one Micro R. He scanned the wund-dogs, they had temporary memory filing filter implants. All burnt by MAD – memory altering devices. Illegal for civilian usage. All of them eating the remains of Burmese Python hastily left there, after the ritual by a small cultist group called RFF- Rudrastakars and fools for forests.  It was not illegal group, but it was illegal for them to clone and burn. It was quiet easy to see who were responsible. They left symbols on the wall, next to the emergency fire-craft of the building - Yin-Yan composed of a white and a red Burmese pythons. It was a temporary torch image, much like florescent image. As long as the micro LEDs burn they show of the image. People just wash the image off by low-intensity acidic solution, and it would gone. The entire alley was deserted though, a very nice privacy for any animistic ritual, he thought. Suddenly a tinge of fear arose, No mutant will be here, Its so close to the sub-docks. He tried to false assure himself. He walked slowly towards the dogs and cats. Two locked up, growled slowly, but not in any mode. That’s strange, he thought. Perhaps MAD even destroyed their instinct amplifiers – Implants for elevated testosterones in any animal subgroups.  She was there staring at him. He frantically scanned to find out if it’s a halo image or not. It was her. His heart was pounding at elevated levels of 110 beats per min, 50 % more than normal.