I’ve just thought… there are very little people who actually know me. Of course, there are cirriculum vitae, other dossiers, people easy can run search what I graduated, how I graduated, what honors achieved, what medals earned, where I have worked, what ranks I got. There are public combat records, some know me by them. Others hate me and try to humiliate me again from same records, for example, mentioning how I lost a carrier by a drive-by doomsday - I probably shouldn’t be telling that, but however awkward it was… it’s truth. And of course there are enemies, who, using the fact nobody knows me well, make up a lot of annoying nonsence about me, like if I would cut off people hands, fly dominix, be a provist, be a madwoman, have intercourse with an animal, rig a duel, and many other crap you probably heard on these forums. Not gonna list them all and discuss them, I just hope that you’re smart enough to not fall for all of these sick fantasies.
Ohh… and if you’re one of these trolls who wanna say “I am again talking about myself” - why the hell are you still in that topic? YES, it is about myself, now close it and get out of here.
Okay, so, whom am I? When I think about it, all I can say is… I am just a soldier of the State. But it doesn’t tell you much about my inner world. So I am going to share it with you.
You know how flimsy Gallente houses are? You saw news or watched gallente reels where a tornado just tears them apart, moves through them leaving just wreck piles behind? How easy they collapse under the wind? That always was making me laugh at them. And compare them with Caldari houses, solid, sturdy. If a hurricane will hit Caldari house, it could probably only break windows, provided they weren’t reinforced, and might possibly tear off the roof, if that roof was made not very well. I am talking about it, because it will be about a hurricane. No, not a ship. But a real hurricane, a mighty force of nature.
Tonight I had a dream.
I was standing on a shore of an ocean and saw it approaching. Enormous wall of wind, almost vertical, several kilometers wide, lifting up water and debris of broken piers and ships, dancing in a whirlwind of a death. The wind was getting stronger and rain was dropping hard, piercing clothes with heavy drops. It was roaring and approaching fast, consuming everything it was touching like a scylla, like unsatiable giant sea monster, coming at you with gaping maw of doom. The moving wall was grey with almost horizontal streaks. It could grab whole trees, tear them from the ground and rotate them, slowly lifting up high in the sky to the ominous rotating clouds. And so I ran.
There was just one place I could hide in - a tiny gallentean house. That stupid flimsy structure that could be torn apart so easily! It was made just of wood with straw roof, and without having anything else nearby, I had no choice but to hide inside from all the debris that was flying in the air like bullets. The hurricane was roaring outside, but it didn’t collapse the house, it pushed it, and this house began rolling through the field like a ball, and I was like a squirrel inside, jumping from floors, to walls, to ceiling. It didn’t last long and the roaring sound disappeared.
The house was laying on its wall when I walked outside. There was no more rain and wind, the sun was shining on wet from the rain grass, and the hurricane… No, it didn’t just disappear, it still was here, but just as an enormous gray disk in the sky, slowly growing smaller and smaller, into tiny funnel. I quickly climbed on top of this toppled house and reached it with my hand. This “hurricane” somehow was small grey funnel right above my head - and it felt incredibly cold inside. And then it poofed. But not completely - because it literally fell on my hands. It was a grey soft and warm pillow in a form of a star. I looked at it and put it on my head as a hat, “Yes, that’s right place for it.” And then I woke up.
Oh, and before all the cryptologists and conspirologists will start trying to build weird ideas and find hidden meaning of this, I’ll tell you - there’s none. It’s not just a story I’ve made up to tell you some sort of a moral, it’s just what it is: only a dream, a little silly product of subconsciousness, just a glimpse of what I “think about” when I am sleeping and not thinking about anything.
Hello. My name is Diana. Nice to meet you.
