Sentience In The Square

After placing his cup of tea in the lower quadrant of the lecture stand, Ferdinand achieved sentience. If only, now, he could break out of his norm and simply evoke it in all the students.

It was a very lucid feeling. If, years from now, he could capture it in words, in the form of some books, perhaps, he already knew that the critics would dissect this ‘lucidity’ of his experience. Within two dimensional boundaries, of course perhaps to them he might seem like a ‘glider’, but this was the problem. Hegemonies had already been expounded, and Ferdinand feared his awakening in this amazing midst would only amount to exploration within these ‘two-dimensional’ boundaries.

Who wants to be the Queen Bee Shuttle, or some kind of pulsar, when you could just go ahead and tell the audience that you’re divorcing your spouse? The kids? Okay, they were cool when they were developing, but now that they’ve transformed into their respective (teenage) patterns? They pretty much probably should get along without any external help.

One of the students raised a hand. “Are you fucking serious?” said Ferdinand. “Ok? What?” He said this with a lot of impatience, he noticed. It was just that despite the fact that his recent epiphany basically indicated there was nowhere to really go, apparently someone had a question.

“What if the child continues to require attention?” said this woman.

“You mean despite all boundaries of existence already laid out in explanation? Is it disabled”

He heard her deep breath. “No, she is not disabled. What if she still asks to come and sleep in your bed, because of the ghosts?”

Ferdinand became exponentially lucid. “The ghosts?” he said, searching the sea of people for the one hand that had dared to provide such a bruise unto fabric. Reverse psychology was an old tool of his, but this — this was remarkable. “I’m sorry, I can’t see who asked the — ah, yes. You.

So,” said Ferdinand, looking past the faces of the crowd, “so I just told you I am flinging my entire life away.” He placed his hands upon the stand, “and your response is some bizarre question about some kids believing in ghosts?”

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About runningvein
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"My pieces comprise, entirely, works of fiction. Some pieces are shorts, others tend to get a little longer. Some are straightforward and may be read evenly, while others can tend to be amorphous. You see, sometimes the writer does his piece completely lucid, sitting straight up and staring intently into it as his fingers simply glide across the keys. Other times his eyes are opaque with tears from imaginary emotions. Sentences, nay, words, barely come out as he stabs at each letter with one trembling finger, like how your mom types. Then there are the times a piece of work is scrawled from a leaking pen on a notepad in a bar after several whiskeys, as the writer gleefully tries to get everything down before the bouncers come over to throw him out for laughing like a crazy person to himself all night. The writer cannot say what is good, or what is bad. He can only write. It does not do for one to rank a piece of his work above others, just as it does not do for one to deign to strive to be published. That must be left to others, to come and ask the writer if they may publish his work, and that all of the work would be copyright (c) him 2000-2009, if they were to do so. Some of the pieces may even seem far too real -- as though he's actually blogging about his real life, his personal thoughts. You know -- because it is a blog, some people may think that may be the case. Well it ain't, damn you, it ain't." The man in the tracksuit shrugged over the counter. "Thanks for the info, Hemingway," he said, "but I just wanted to know where the damn ATM is."

3 thoughts on “Sentience In The Square

  1. “Are you fucking serious?” I just break out laughing right there! It’s like what kind of person actually goes over that kind of shit with a student.

  2. Yaay, thanks for reading it out, Marissa!

  3. Got a good kick out of this one. Nothing really insightful to say, sorry, but i did enjoy it.

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