He developed into a sturdy man. Always recording his thoughts underneath the closest hidden piece of paper. Thoughts leaving his fingertips onto the paper. Onto the table. Onto the wall. Words fading into the reality of things. Reality being what he could see. What he could touch. Feelings he wished to let go.
I always wanted to be famous. And I’ve always hated that about myself. It’s a vain obsession and one that is much too common in people my age. So I try to resist it, try to keep in my more realistic endeavors for myself. And yet, here I am, recording yet another mock YouTube video. Certain that fame will come with the brilliance that must be hiding inside me; how could anyone *not* hear what I have to say? I hate it. Stop me, me.
the recording is always easier to speak through
a text whisper thoughts of love that seeps through,
but youll never say i love in person though
pretending to be happy when your not
is an inconsiderate thought.
although the surface may need to be
blended and altered,
a centrifuge of our life taken,
when we mixed up
in our own disposition, oh so
mistaken.
I was writing an essay when my sister came in with a camera. she started to record me even though she knows that I hate being and camera. Instead of telling her to go, I ignore her. the nest day I was cleaning when she started to record me again. she recorded me for a couple weeks and she showed the recordings to her friends. she started to show my class. it terns out that she was recording me because we were moving to Germany and she wanted to show every one what I was like. it was sweet but I hated the attention.
There are many diffrent divices that you can use to record these days. you can even use your phone! Some people get paid to record videos and post then to YouTube.
I hear this message flowing through me, like I have heard it before. The message always comes at a simple time, a time when it is quiet and calm. The message pulls me forward from the shadows yet it blinds me with the unknown. It chills my core but it singes its way through my veins.
Record the order of the chords a musician like Lorde ordered for your entertainment. Some space of time away say the artist with little heartaches and pains sat on a microphone and sang to years of audiences in front of him.
High up in the dusty attic.
A box.
Flaps weaved shut.
Below the layers of newspaper clips from a better time.
The final recording of his voice, his radio show,
lie dormant.
He worked his whole life to make them.
Call it a feebile attempt to try an make something, anything, that could out last time.
But a generation later,
it is but a fool’s errand.
I could listen to you talk all day
capture your voice in a machine
it wouldn’t be the same has having you here
but it would help
it might be an appetite suppressant
but at some point
later in the day
I’m gonna want the full dinner I was promised
The juggler one the street, the circus in town, the child having a birthday, and so much more are experiences we see through our recordings instead of our eyes.
Recording a song or music or an act is so much fun. In the age of digital cameras recording has become literally a child’s play. One can record anytime, anywhere, anyone or anything. recording helps make ma
I used to make recordings when I felt like I didn’t have anyone to talk to. They’re all really creepy because they’re things I would never tell anyone and I was always really upset. Upset about the world, upset about things I couldn’t change. But I haven’t done one of those in a really long time, which makes me feel pretty good now that I’m thinking back on that..
His hands shook, his body trembling with an instant cold disgust as he awoke and saw the consequences of sleep upon his unrestrained body. His fingertips relinquished their grip upon the blade and it dropped to the floor beside the lifeless body slumped against the wall.
When he was achild he remembered a wrinkled woman telling him the lines on his skin could tell the story of his life. Now they were coatedi in the hot, dark lifeblood of someone else.
Still shaking he turned to examine his surroundings.. and looked into the blinking red eye of a camera.
The recording studio. Or that is, at least, what it said on the faintly flashing sign, in front of the derelict shop. In amidst the rest of the glamorous street, it looked lost, but Mack had been told to come here to meet Isabelle; apparently, the author was on the move.
I stepped into the room, feet padding tenderly on the rugged carpet. As quietly as I could, I slipped out my headphones. In a hushed whisper, I began to mumble to the small audience I had acquired over the years.
“Hey. It’s me, Jack. I realize this might be hard to hear, but I’ve decided it’s been long enough. Tonight, I’m turning for them.” I heard a little gasp sputter out of my mouth. It was all too real now. I was really doing this.
I suddenly stood up and ripped off my headphones, immediately tripping on my chair and crashing to the ground.
“Shit!” I yelped.
It’s like a recording, playing before my eyes again and again, but it’s not really there. It’s just my imagination; flashing back over and over the images I can’t erase. The biggest question I have is, why is it that I’m stuck in YOUR past?
I’ve heard about a book
In which an angel is recording
All the good or evil we do
And that someone day
We’ll have to give an account
Judged as righteous or wicked
Now, I don’t know if that’s true
But I do know we humans
In invisible notebooks
Are recording all the rights and wrongs
We feel are committed against us
And every day we pass judgment
Determining the grace to be given
Based on the distorted mental notes we have written
I stepped into the room, feet padding tenderly on the rugged carpet. As quietly as I could, I slipped out my headphones. In a hushed whisper, I began to mumble to the small audience I had acquired over the years.
“Hey. It’s me, Jack. I realize this might be hard to hear, but I’ve decided it’s been long enough. Tonight, I’m turning for them.”
Well, Its a recording I was listening today morning which was recorded about a year ago when we were together and having fun at the trip. It feels wonderful to hear her voice again.
I want to be a recording artist
But I have had the creativity beaten out of me
By a world that only celebrates
Those who are the same
Who feign originality
And I have tried
And tried
To reach the version of me
Who could write
and sing
without shame
but it is very likely
that she has slipped away
I am not alone. My voice and my thoughts travel throu time and space. I am being recorded. listen tome.
when I think of recording, I think of youtube and how people never know if they are live or not when streaming.
recording my thoughts on to a paper about recording is like me re-playing a recording of a recorder on a broken recorder while recording chords.
tuaethujzdthjuyrururrrrrrrryryfhyyfgyyyesxxxxxxhhtytytytytyy
He developed into a sturdy man. Always recording his thoughts underneath the closest hidden piece of paper. Thoughts leaving his fingertips onto the paper. Onto the table. Onto the wall. Words fading into the reality of things. Reality being what he could see. What he could touch. Feelings he wished to let go.
I always wanted to be famous. And I’ve always hated that about myself. It’s a vain obsession and one that is much too common in people my age. So I try to resist it, try to keep in my more realistic endeavors for myself. And yet, here I am, recording yet another mock YouTube video. Certain that fame will come with the brilliance that must be hiding inside me; how could anyone *not* hear what I have to say? I hate it. Stop me, me.
the recording is always easier to speak through
a text whisper thoughts of love that seeps through,
but youll never say i love in person though
pretending to be happy when your not
is an inconsiderate thought.
although the surface may need to be
blended and altered,
a centrifuge of our life taken,
when we mixed up
in our own disposition, oh so
mistaken.
I was writing an essay when my sister came in with a camera. she started to record me even though she knows that I hate being and camera. Instead of telling her to go, I ignore her. the nest day I was cleaning when she started to record me again. she recorded me for a couple weeks and she showed the recordings to her friends. she started to show my class. it terns out that she was recording me because we were moving to Germany and she wanted to show every one what I was like. it was sweet but I hated the attention.
There are many diffrent divices that you can use to record these days. you can even use your phone! Some people get paid to record videos and post then to YouTube.
I hear this message flowing through me, like I have heard it before. The message always comes at a simple time, a time when it is quiet and calm. The message pulls me forward from the shadows yet it blinds me with the unknown. It chills my core but it singes its way through my veins.
Record the order of the chords a musician like Lorde ordered for your entertainment. Some space of time away say the artist with little heartaches and pains sat on a microphone and sang to years of audiences in front of him.
High up in the dusty attic.
A box.
Flaps weaved shut.
Below the layers of newspaper clips from a better time.
The final recording of his voice, his radio show,
lie dormant.
He worked his whole life to make them.
Call it a feebile attempt to try an make something, anything, that could out last time.
But a generation later,
it is but a fool’s errand.
I could listen to you talk all day
capture your voice in a machine
it wouldn’t be the same has having you here
but it would help
it might be an appetite suppressant
but at some point
later in the day
I’m gonna want the full dinner I was promised
The juggler one the street, the circus in town, the child having a birthday, and so much more are experiences we see through our recordings instead of our eyes.
I wish I could just record my life everyday and play the recording the next day, edit the recording, add filters and record the good memories!
your voice
crackling, flickering
dying in turning circles
has found a home here
when no one else would accept it
except your grave
Recording a song or music or an act is so much fun. In the age of digital cameras recording has become literally a child’s play. One can record anytime, anywhere, anyone or anything. recording helps make ma
I used to make recordings when I felt like I didn’t have anyone to talk to. They’re all really creepy because they’re things I would never tell anyone and I was always really upset. Upset about the world, upset about things I couldn’t change. But I haven’t done one of those in a really long time, which makes me feel pretty good now that I’m thinking back on that..
His hands shook, his body trembling with an instant cold disgust as he awoke and saw the consequences of sleep upon his unrestrained body. His fingertips relinquished their grip upon the blade and it dropped to the floor beside the lifeless body slumped against the wall.
When he was achild he remembered a wrinkled woman telling him the lines on his skin could tell the story of his life. Now they were coatedi in the hot, dark lifeblood of someone else.
Still shaking he turned to examine his surroundings.. and looked into the blinking red eye of a camera.
The recording studio. Or that is, at least, what it said on the faintly flashing sign, in front of the derelict shop. In amidst the rest of the glamorous street, it looked lost, but Mack had been told to come here to meet Isabelle; apparently, the author was on the move.
I stepped into the room, feet padding tenderly on the rugged carpet. As quietly as I could, I slipped out my headphones. In a hushed whisper, I began to mumble to the small audience I had acquired over the years.
“Hey. It’s me, Jack. I realize this might be hard to hear, but I’ve decided it’s been long enough. Tonight, I’m turning for them.” I heard a little gasp sputter out of my mouth. It was all too real now. I was really doing this.
I suddenly stood up and ripped off my headphones, immediately tripping on my chair and crashing to the ground.
“Shit!” I yelped.
It’s like a recording, playing before my eyes again and again, but it’s not really there. It’s just my imagination; flashing back over and over the images I can’t erase. The biggest question I have is, why is it that I’m stuck in YOUR past?
I’ve heard about a book
In which an angel is recording
All the good or evil we do
And that someone day
We’ll have to give an account
Judged as righteous or wicked
Now, I don’t know if that’s true
But I do know we humans
In invisible notebooks
Are recording all the rights and wrongs
We feel are committed against us
And every day we pass judgment
Determining the grace to be given
Based on the distorted mental notes we have written
I stepped into the room, feet padding tenderly on the rugged carpet. As quietly as I could, I slipped out my headphones. In a hushed whisper, I began to mumble to the small audience I had acquired over the years.
“Hey. It’s me, Jack. I realize this might be hard to hear, but I’ve decided it’s been long enough. Tonight, I’m turning for them.”
I wasn’t expecting to hear the recording so clearly and loud. Caught me off guard, your voice, your cry.
Well, Its a recording I was listening today morning which was recorded about a year ago when we were together and having fun at the trip. It feels wonderful to hear her voice again.
“Did you hear her sing?”
“Yeah,” Chris said, her eyes slightly glazed over as she attempted to smoothly pour a customer a shot. “I did.”
Rob raised his eyebrows. “Think anybody was recording it?”
“Hmmm?”
“Recording it.”
“Recording what?”
“Her singing,” said Rob with a smirk. “Maybe it’ll go viral on Youtube. It damn well should.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” mumbled Chris, and she felt her heartbeat quicken.
I want to be a recording artist
But I have had the creativity beaten out of me
By a world that only celebrates
Those who are the same
Who feign originality
And I have tried
And tried
To reach the version of me
Who could write
and sing
without shame
but it is very likely
that she has slipped away