comainterrupted
The Beginning
Skip Navigation Links









The Raven
Flames
VS




[06:02 pst 03/11/2017 CE, 1489240920 E]

Current audio: Hans Zimmer 'Paradox'

This entry marks the revamp of all extraneous, legal, and informational pages within Coma. We have aligned everything so as to follow the central theme of the index. Things look a tad more professional now. Next the FAQ will head in the same direction, lest it disappear like so many other sections throughout the past few months.

We are now updating twice weekly on the main index, and hopefully this can continue for the remainder of this year. Admin is attempting to hollow out his head and place everything here for all to see, and such a move could eat up much space. We'll see how it goes, but one thing is certain: The servers will be there, we will be here, and the site will continue to operate until our sun goes nova.


hexagram




The Train of Life


"The feelings began because once again we watched a film we should have avoided. Some of these films are very deeply emotional and remind us of things from the past that we wish not to be dredged up, but at the same time we need them dredged up. Life for us, as we cannot speak about others' lives, is like riding a train along a track which has turns but no switches. The track moves along a predetermined path where we should be going, and when a bad decision is made the train derails attempting to turn. The turn is forced and so the train leaves the track. Railroad lines do not respond well to being pushed off course. The decision is the catalyst and the resulting wreck is us.

Three such films exist, and during the correct convergence of circumstances one of these will be splayed across the large screen and command our attention no matter the day's events nor the existing frame of mind. There might actually be more than three such films, but as of this writing we have not seen them nor are we aware. Already we are in a hole and to dig deeper is not going to end well.

The past several years seem to be somewhat of a repeat of the early part of this century. Mistakes, backpedaling, more mistakes, and much difficulty and fallout. Combined with a smörgåsbord of questionable decisions, this is a very dangerous state of affairs. And none of the decisions have gone by the wayside like so many therapists would prefer. They are all still there, in detail, and pulling at our ability to move further along in life. Again? Yep, the fucking train. Regardless of others' desires or recommendations, we maintain our own pace and direction. They can smooch the resulting behaviors along with some fucking ass. The train dictates all, not them. So long as there is coal in the tender and/or fuel for the diesels we go where driven. Do not give us flap about free will and an unwritten future. The result will be uncomfortable, unwelcome, and quite harsh.

That's right... we are all about the fucking 'un'. Live with it.

We have written about this at length, but significant details have been omitted in order to maintain our anonymous nature. This type of medium is global, after all, and the identity of ourselves as well as others involved must remain out of the limelight for the time being, lest things get out of hand. The marks have been made and are all over us, if unfinished. And there are more to come.

Despite all of the derailments, our train continues to plod along. It is clearly out of our control. Some days we lose awareness of the power of the locomotive, however during other times the machine is at the forefront and in clear command -- not us. Oh yes, we do attempt to deny the overwhelming diesel and electric might, but in the end of any given scenario we are pushed. The train is driven along its path at varying speeds depending upon our situation with regard to others. The closer we become to good souls, the slower and more stable the cars roll. When we drift, a million tons of metal drifts with us, and it is at such a point that the train can drag us.



train

Undeniable and unrelenting power



There is no one else on the train. We have searched and searched the three locomotives, and during those times when it is moving slowly, we have scoured as many of the carriers as possible. We must venture back to the engines before they gain enough speed to leave us behind. Without anyone to control the diesels, we are at the mercy of them. For whatever reason, or possibly solely out of fear, we continue to search for others. There is no engineer, brakeman, conductor, nor is there a switchman. The last of these would be helpful because without a switchman we have no hope of changing direction. And despite the occasional turn to the left or right, the entire affair moves along a generally straight line. It rolls and rolls. At times the train feels as if it will roll over us if we are not careful.

Perhaps it has already rolled over us and this site is the resulting damage. Who the fuck knows?

No one. And we have asked that futile question on more than a handful of occasions lately. Considering the vast number of essays written in other directions since the bleach box of all-too-fucked-up twenty fifteen, we have little doubt that any type of answer to ANY of our meandering questions has even the slightest chance of a clear answer. And again... someone... ANSWER THE FUCKING QUESTIONS! Right. As if anything related to our being was so simple. Anyway... the damned train.

The locomotives and trailing stock are as gorgeous as Julianne. They are gleaming in the sunlight, proceeding to distribute their wares as needed by millions. The repetitive and musical clicking of the truck pairs upon each rail joint makes the rolling stock sound as if the world is on its way to our door with the force of a falling planet. The weight of each covered gondola presses the steel rails into submission like some otherworldly being bent upon the crushing of everything we know. The rails are mighty, yet they submit to the train's wishes with nary a possible escape. As the motion continues, we feel the weight -- the very tonnage -- upon us like the unrelenting and damaging emotions which result from each viewing of those goddamned feature films. We have nothing to grab hold of in hopes of repelling such overwhelming pressure. The train and our endless rash decisions may actually be a deathly representation of the fucking films themselves -- the sour combination of our actions and inactions, film industry desires, wide-eyed and hopeful dreams, and our unwillingness to bend from the well-financed and comfortable position on the fucking sofa. Yes, the train is also the films, but it is us, too. There can be no denying such an illuminated point. We did this to ourselves. And the only end to the depressing exploration of our multitude of mistakes is the fucking cold, damp soil.

That's right... the earth beneath the rails.



trucks

Rolling over us?



One locomotive can be six thousand horsepower. This is three. Do the math. Yep... plenty. Well, this is not the first occasion upon which we felt so much of a load bearing down on us. Every sighting of those female forms of which we have written extensively is similar. There is just no fucking end to anything. Either the visions push us down, or the train. There is no middle within which we can rest and regain any clarity. The whole thing is too much, and constantly it tries to win over our tender ability to stay above the dirt. Since the internet has a billion users visiting a billion different sites, perhaps one person will stop by this dump to see what may be happening at any given moment. Um... perhaps not. Seeing as this is our only path outside of ourselves, shit is not looking terribly positive. Ya know? This is ugly, filthy, desperate. That last term is more than appropriate, don't you think?

Ugh. Just fucking ugh.

At least we never run short on the supply of alcohol.

And the site is beginning to resemble the MySpace days. Heh. Whatever. We go where the train dictates due to a lack of choice. It keeps moving... traveling along the rails and distributing the heaviness throughout our lives just like the music which is injected into our sorry heads. Ongoing and endlessly painful travel to an area we already know awaits. That place is there, beckoning without any emotion. We know this because we are living a part of it, and the waiting is arduous. Just a spark and we are there... wherever it is that we belong. The train knows... it knows everything and has a plan for us. With all of that incredible power we have no saving throw no matter how we may feel or view such an end. And we have seen it in spades, just a short time ago. We attended the gathering, we wept for the occasion, and we ran to the alcohol like nothing before.

Crap.



rolling over us

Are we on the train, or are we THE train?



That was the worst. And we have not been able to travel anywhere near that area since. We simply cannot due to the loss and the interminable feelings of distress. The weight and motion of the train directs us past memories we constantly fight to push away. Combined with all of the other lousy and cutting thoughts from the past many years, our current position in life, and the idea that we are going absolutely nowhere in this shit world, the train is not assisting us in any way. It is simply in charge of us in too many ways to state clearly. There is no mercy whatsoever. The train forces us to recall that terrible fucking wreck of a year, the issues and joys therein, and the resulting loss which caused a change in us of massive proportions. It is still going on, in fact, and each day we are reminded in some manner of the difficulties and choices, and the resulting war which arrived in our sorry heads.

On occasion we find breathing difficult, too. And the train is the reason.

And we have no goddamned idea of where we are.

The year of which the fucking train continues to dredge up is similar in structure to the year which brought us to this place. Littered with a distorted and distilled sense of awareness, the time we spent bouncing from one bad decision to another was like being a pachinko ball in a life-sized game with the devil at the controls. We just could not seem to turn into a constructive direction and move along the path. The falling continued. The alcohol flowed. The others could not understand what was happening, and during those rare times when we could open a slot in the window and speak of events, the train became determined to maintain our compass bearing and take control like nothing else in life. We just kept going, and on numerous occasions when we actually had a day which seemed decent enough to possibly lift us from the rails, once again that fucking locomotive would overtake our sense of being and ram us through the walls of thought and into the wasteland. Again and again that machine just would not let up.



gone

Telegraphing our destiny



One day very soon the train of life will ram us into a position which requires a decision. Do we continue throwing our thoughts, desires, and feelings up here for all time? Lacking hope? Sans resolution? Or do we finally flee the mighty diesels in favor of another path? Whichever, the end is the same... we have been here before, and we know why. As stated clearly above, we did this to ourselves out of a lack of sensible thought and reasonable decision-making, and we are beginning to believe that the writing, analysis, and fucking effort toward an understanding has been entirely misplaced. We know where we should be, we know it is far away from the others, and we know that the distance is necessary for their benefit as well as those of the future. The train needs to demand, dictate, and finally throw us under the fucking wheels in order to force us toward where our destiny speaks -- has spoken -- and into a place where any further understanding matters not. We will, at long last, be among the fruits of our painful and fucked-up decisions, actions, inactions, and resulting difficulties inherent in attempting to fit in. The world may no longer be where we belong.

The train will bring us home."



archive this way



Random Quote:

"Life is not lost by dying; life is lost minute by minute, day by dragging day,
in all the thousand small uncaring ways."
-- Stephen Vincent Benét


top

coma cross