Now some statistics...

The site 750 words I wrote about in a post, finally gave me some statistics; The site uses 2 softwares to analyze text - one of them is: Regressive Imagery Dictionary that calculates the various emotional content of each day's entry. Of course this software isn't all that trust-worthy, but sometimes it's right on.
So now some statistics:

(Pay attention to the world's average "Swearing" and mine; also I have no idea what PG-13 means)

(These emotions are ordered with your highest average scores at the top. You can compare your average emotional content with the last 7 days of writing, or with the world's average score; in this case the latter)


(This is your view of the world, i.e. time orientation, or what you mostly consider: past, present, future, the dead-purple-pinkish color is my average and blue is world's average- e.g. the other 750words users)


and you can see your overall mindset while writing (mine is generally negative and introvert) :



The end.

http://youtu.be/iIrNg4ag_0M

Some random observations about death.

So the other day i stumbled upon this site:
https://750words.com
So, it is basically, an online diary; you just register and start writing. The idea is that you blog, but nobody can see it - i guess it's for people who don't feel like other people reading what they write (or just don't think other people would find it useful), or at least, not all the time. After you finish the day (every day you can write, and when the day is over or something like that) there's an analysis (or at least it could be called so) of what you've written, how you felt, your mindset while writing, time-orientation etc.

Sun 'n smiles 'n stuff like that

The last page of a pessimistic pattern of thinking [at least for some time, if not forever, forever=!possible]; the last thing that'd be devoted to a useless brooding (the last at least for what inspired it)


Tears’ taste was more bitter than ever
thoughts were so morbid, mornings - belated;
Breath may be precious and holy, however
its cessation was never so longed, awaited.

Goodbye. (:

stuff

Twenty minutes

I secretly hope no one will ever read that, which probably is what'd be,... But then why am I writing it? Because i believe that in order to get over an emotion, and not let it suffocate you, it's better to express it somehow. And the best somehow for me is writing. So, i was just out with my brother & mum, riding bikes /in the village, so you, the imaginary reader, will be aware of the close-knit relationships that exist here, otherwise that might have not happened/ and just on the way home I saw an old woman /i hope that's politically correct for the correctness nazis./ She smiled. I can't depict her smile, because I can't depict an emotion. I can just say that, when I got home, I felt an impulse to go back to her; and so I did. I went to her, sat on the bench, and she talked about her children, her grandchildren and how she used to be a singer. Yes, imaginary reader, I can see your face expression, that says "yes, and that's quite boring, old people talks, blah. They never stop." Now imagine yourself alone in a house. The house is big. You're alone. Your children are in /the best case/ the near town, working, coming to see you once or twice a week. You can't walk properly, you walk on crutches. So, most of the time, you are at home. Alone. And yet you smiled and your smile beamed. And what would mean the world to you may take just twenty minutes - twenty minutes to listen to the stories of your life. Those twenty minutes of listening.
And the emotion? Overwhelming happiness; happiness full of sad nuances.

VI
IF I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.


XXV
BELSHAZZAR had a letter,—
He never had but one;
Belshazzar’s correspondent
Concluded and begun
In that immortal copy
The conscience of us all
Can read without its glasses
On revelation’s wall.


I
SUCCESS is counted sweetest
By those who ne’er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory,
As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Break, agonized and clear

http://www.useless-knowledge.com

I don't know if someone will ever read that, but I'll post it anyway.

~~~
She fell.
A murder of her own virtue
for it was crippled indeed
as her thoughts dwell on the unfortunate,
as her smile easily deceived
that the beauty, rich and purpose
she did not see as creed,
neither coveted, nor wished for,
though, she always did.


She prays:
in her chamber of loneliness
while she’s part of the throng.
She’s been silent ‘cause her wistfulness
has cut off her tongue.
Her hands are now tied with a chord,
and cannot hold his;
How awful an inner discord
could be to the longed for bliss.


She creeps
through the endless labyrinth,
resembling the insane
catching a glimpse of its exit unlit,
rising and rushing to grasp it, in vain,
keeps cutting that chord,
and cutting, and carving while trying to cut,
her hand now reminding of scarlet, uncut
she be in Eden.
Her eyes are now shut.