._.

Alter Ego said:

So I was sitting down by my computer today, in rather a pensive mood do to a certain incident similar in nature to such which occur regularly within social interactions typical of educational establishments of the secondary degree, when – by the ironclad laws of collocation – the trail of my ruminations inevitably strayed in the direction of this very well known, indeed infamous, thread on this blessed roadside service station of the information highway that is the Pokécommunity. It was, I thought, a formidable – indeed, I may even be so bold as to say destined – crossing of probabilities, those fickle, effemary and ever-changing whims of Lady Luck, that the thread which my cognition had chosen as its terminal point – its climax, if you will – was indeed provided by that very same corporation, those chosen architects of the human enlightment's glorious road to triumph, as the place from which this melancholy voyage of mine had first originated; Vbulletin. And so, like a sprinter reaching the end of his trials, like a mere apprentice returning as a master or a salmon returning to the place of its birth to further pass the ecological baton of its fertile seed down through the ages, in that endless relay race we refer to simply as life, I felt a deep-seated urge - a primal need - to mark the moment of this glorious apotheosis, this fulfillment of a great cycle, as so many had done here before me.

I can not deny it; it was a glorious moment, that pure, ecstatic feeling of being part of something so much greater than my own mere existence, this pittance of years not even worthy of a footnote in the fantastic epic that is the history of the universe, yet at the same time, I felt something inside me cringe away in hesitation, fear. Even surrounded by the glory of the whole, the overwhelming sense of unity and omnipotence coursing through me, I could not help but conceive that undeniably petty and immature yet so thoroughly human thought: 'What of me?' In this glorious communion of souls, what impact could my mere and - in the grand scale – so dismissably minute self possibly hope to affect? I trembled, to the very bottom of my soul, in the very fabric of my being, my briefly forgotten melancholy resurfacing from the murky depths of my subconscious in its full, terrifying strength. It was then, as I cast a desolate and listless glance over this near-infinite expanse of writing, this uneraseable testament to humanity's tenacity and reckless self-preoccupation, that another thought surface, a softer, warmer one this time, one filled with hope and excitement. Unsurmountably impressive though the whole was, more vigorous scrutiny revealed that its parts were still undeniably small, pitiful, even neglectable, devoid of that writer's youth elixir that is unbridled loquacity, and so it was with newfound joy and eagerness, like the child who finally conquers a difficult problem that has plagued him for weeks or a marathon runner who spies the end of his lap straight ahead, that I reached out over my keyboard and began to type, allowing the full exhuberance of my heart and soul – nay, my entire being – to pour into every keystroke and phrase, carving and scratching through the lines with the vigor of a convict filing through the last iron bar between him and freedom or beaver felling the last tree for its grand dam.

And so, with this heart and soul, with the words from this mind and these fingers, upon this humble keyboard and screen, I enscribed the words that would grant me existence far beyond the mere effemary cage of my life.


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