|Amount of texts to »me«||130, and there are 119 texts (91.54%) with a rating above the adjusted level (-3)|
|Average lenght of texts||126 Characters|
|Average Rating||1.038 points, 27 Not rated texts|
|First text||on Apr 8th 2000, 04:29:37 wrote
me about me
|Latest text||on Nov 1st 2015, 12:46:02 wrote
carolyn stewart about me
|Some texts that have not been rated at all
on Sep 13th 2002, 23:37:31 wrote
on May 12th 2000, 21:35:30 wrote
on Oct 30th 2015, 09:15:13 wrote
Random associativity, rated above-average positively
Texts to »Me«
meRating: 19 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
Doe, a deer, a female deer
Ray, a drop of golden sun
Me, a name I call the rational, conscious part of my brain. Freud called this the ego, or self. So what are the parts of me that aren't me? Do my subconscious thoughts share my existance, or just interact with it? Can I (being »me«) assume responsibility for the uncontrolled actions of my id and superego? And if this is »me«, then who the hell are »you«?
meRating: 9 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
meRating: 11 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
meRating: 5 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
meRating: 6 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
meRating: 1 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
The dance stops. The men walk back to the walls, and talk in low tones or with their hands. There is little conversation, yet everyone seems to be sharing some secret. A woman looks at a small boy wandering away, and he comes back to her.
Strange, I think, and then remember. These people are not sharing words they are sharing a mood. Everyone is happy. I am so used to white people that it seems strange so many people could be together, and because the night is beautiful outside, and the music is beautiful. I try hard to forget school and white people, and be one of these my people. I try to forget everything but the night, and it is a part of me...
I look around the room. All the eyes are friendly; they all laugh. No one questions my being here. The drums begin to beat again, and I catch the invitation in the eyes of the old men. My feet begin to lift to the rhythm, and I look out beyond the walls into the night and see the lights. I am happy. It is beautiful. I am home.
meRating: 7 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
meRating: 2 point(s) | Read and rate text individually
When I wrote of the women in their dancec and wildness, it was a mask,
on their mountain, gold-hunting, singing, in orgy,
it was a mask; when I wrote of the god,
fragmented, exiled from himself, his life, the love gone down with song,
it was myself, split open, unable to speak, in exile from myself.
There is no mountain, there is no god, there is no memory
of my torn life, myself split open in sleep, the rescued child
beside me among the doctors, and a word
of rescue from the great eyes.
No more masks! No more mythologies!
Now, for the first time, the god lifts his hand,
the fragments join in me with their own music.
|Some random keywords||
|Some random keywords in the german Blaster||