Am I Doing This Write?

One may almost doubt if the wisest man has learned anything of absolute value by living.

Forgive me, for I have been away for a long time. I think now is the time for words.

I’m going to write today about what it means to write. Let us prepare to grapple with the ineffable itself, and see if we may not eff it after all.

I can only consider myself a writer insofar as to believe that I pen my thoughts for others to read. I cannot, however, claim that my writing is any good. With the advent of social media sites, there are far too many young people today who feel a sense of entitlement to have their opinions heard. Unfortunately, most of them don’t deserve as much. Writing is in a sense, the art of losing yourself. Like accidental poetry.

What is it about certain books that make us fall in love? That transports us to alternate dimensions? The difference is being a genius in writing – to immerse oneself in it, separate its numerous strands, and appreciate its subtle nuances. Art exists as a medium for other ends. We want only to create, and THAT is what art is. The creating; not the product. Unfortunately, this escapes most would-be writers. But it is a characteristic of wisdom to not do desperate things.

“Writers aren't exactly people… They’re a whole bunch of people trying to be one person.” – F. Scott Fitzgerald

The trick is to exist within your characters. Inhabit their souls. One needs only to be perspicuous enough to breathe some semblance of reality into them to create something, someone, worth falling in love with. It shames me to think that a writer can claim to have no attachment to who they create. It’s a part of you, ffs!

Fleeting moments are what create stories. Even renowned writers have to start from a nagging idea that can only be fully formed in the process. The idea is to be relatable by being human. There is no extreme happiness nor extreme sadness; only the verisimilitude that exists in life. Translate that and expose it. You will be commended.

I hate to admit that I know of some people who are strong believers in their writing ability and this is rather unfortunate. No young writer has the liberty to have such an ego about their work. Only, I’m not brave enough to tell them so myself… WOW SUBTEXT. This is for you.

To summarise: Your writing is never as good as you think it is. I'm not exempt.

P.S.  I hate that the font that gets posted doesn't have serifs. I ought to fix that.

There Is A Light That Never Goes Out

I went for a birthday party some time last year (ages ago, I know) and it was my first real experience. I wrote about it in my book, and thought that perhaps it was time to share it with you.

 It goes:

When I arrived, I felt as if I'd been introduced to the land of the living, the home of the free, and the bungee-jumpers with no strings attached. What is this place? Are these real people?
I was cascading in the colourful darkness of alcohol-induced lust and the necessary pain of walking in heels. We were elegant peacocks, all of us; comparing plumage and strutting with airs. It was a facade, of course it was, but it was new and I was enjoying it.
Is this what it means to take your life into your own hands? What is this intense compulsion to give yourself away to all the other free souls?
Adulthood is never awarded gradually.
There is no simple way to become accustomed to it. It is a mechanical beast that feeds on uneasiness, peer pressure, the desire we all harbour to fit in - and this beast is relentless! It sucks you into this spasming chaos unrestrained and the vortex doesn't become apparent until you are drowning in it. But it's almost as if it can't be helped; you must endure. You must pull through, because adulthood is on the other side of it. You'll only know you've reached it when the buzzing world has become merely a sickening thought and the sticky sweetness of nostalgia is the only reminder.
I've only just arrived.
I'm not ready to leave yet.
This is the transition state of my being.

Addict

The desperation of an addict.

I know it only too well. It reeks of regret, nostalgia, and obviously, depression.

It is the feeling one gets when everything can seemingly only go downhill. It is the painful process of realisation and consternation, a pleading desire to not go into the light. The wanting of change – and the stubbornness to not want to pull through. It is a monumental Everest that I don’t have the breath to climb. It is the inane fear of not being able to survive it.

But perhaps this time will be different. Oh, how I will try! But do I want to?

“Although many of us think that we are thinking creatures that feel; we are, in fact, feeling creatures that think.”

I am ashamed of myself. Ashamed of my body’s craving. It is a ridiculous notion to think that my physiological being overpowers my mental one. I simply cannot be that weak! I have the willpower, I have the desire, and I have the shattering glass.

It must end. It ought to have ended before it began, and this is what pains me. I’m done creating futile excuses for my weakness. I’ve experienced the hypnagogic jerk that has reawakened me to who I’ve been.

But I’m better than that.

Will Freely

The entire debate about free will seems to rest on shaky ground. It is possibly one of the most ill-defined concepts of the modern age, and branches into almost every scientific faculty thinkable (physics, biology, neuroscience, statistics) but let's go about some philosophy bashing first. My argument is with myself, as I've found reasons to believe that free will is existent, and reasons for why it isn't plausible at all. Let me share them with you.

To say you choose not to choose is contradictory.

Is it theoretically viable to consider ourselves in a world that is both deterministic and chaotic?
See, Chaos Theory actually doesn't defend the concept of free will in the slightest. Even though chaotic systems are unpredictable, their behaviour is considered deterministic in that despite their movements being far too complex to be calculable, they still are determinable.

Perhaps free will is illusory. To believe in free will means to imply that my thought processes act outside of my environment, i.e. not a reaction to stimuli. But the truth is, I can only react. If the universe is deterministic, it means that everything we have done or will do stems from long lines of causation that extend beyond a single individual, from before we can even be born.

In order for free will to exist, we’d have to get rid of both determinism and indeterminism, which by then we would have nothing left. The rules of chance say that an event could happen or it could not happen. There is no in between. There is a Latin term that describes people who exist outside the rules of all we know: 'causa sui', it means 'creators of their own cause'. None of them exist.

What's a scientific discussion without some God thrown in, eh?
Theists believe that God awards them free will. Yet they also believe that God knows the future. They demonstrate free will cannot exist simply by believing it does. If God fails to know the future, He'd lose his godlike nature. Free will's existence would contradict the very idea of an all knowing 'God'.

 Does this mean that life is meaningless? Not at all. It means that although I don’t have any choice in the matter, I am able to experience life, beauty, variety, a slice of unpredictability and love - which makes life worth living.

But maybe we can live in a deterministic world and still have something that resembles free will...

Perhaps the notion of free will is truly subjective and depends on from where in spacetime you look at the bigger picture. If we accept that the universe operates in either a deterministic or indeterministic way, we essentially understand that this means the future (in principle) is fixed. But this future is only knowable from the outside, if the past can be evaluated simultaneously with the present. From where we are - imbedded within spacetime - we cannot know the future. The future always appears unpredictable from our stance, and this is what creates the illusion of an open future. Of free will.


We are slaves to the butterfly effect.

Human and Haunting

This holiday, I read a non-fiction book titled ‘Children of the Holocaust’ by Helen Epstein. It details the unexplored plight of the first generation born of Holocaust survivors. It is an interesting perspective to consider – what were the effects on their children? What must it feel like to know that your parents were part of some atrocious act that is the subject of so many history books?

Reading accounts from this generation has enabled me to better understand the human psyche. Each one of those children could relate to the need to do something about the holes in their lives that were a result of having lost a part of their parents to a war they could not fathom.

In some sense, I feel as if I am a part of this clique. We all are children of survivors. I’ve grown up hearing my parents’ somewhat morbid stories of their childhood, everything that determined who they became. My father would always conclude these stories by telling us that his children are now his life, and he’d never want for us to go through the things he has. As would any parent.

But this left me with more questions than answers, more uneasiness about how I wanted my life to develop. Does it disappoint my father when I take food for granted after having heard his experiences of not having had food for days? Of course it does. But I feel as if I’d lost the carelessness generally awarded with childhood. I sometimes feel as if my life is the replacement of my father’s misplaced one, and that I must take advantage of every moment to be happy, in his stead. This is burdensome.

The effort is like trying to graft a foreign branch to a native tree. The graft would not take. Sometimes I need to be sad.

My life is little less than a cosmic blip on the universe’s radar, fading before it can even be seen. This life of mine is so tiny in the greater scheme of things; but I still would like the chance to live it as I see fit, instead of living within the boundaries that are forced upon me. Do I consider the expectations of others, or do I disregard them in the name of individuality? Is the real me lost between the yellowed pages of my parents’ past?

The truth is that we have only one lifetime to live, and we cannot spend it searching through the past for ourselves, because we’re not there. We’re here. My parents were different people before I came to be, and I’ve come to respect that. In the same manner, they ought to respect that my lifetime is mine. I need to make my own mistakes.

I do not want to live just because I happen to be alive. Routine bothers me. I want to be alive so that I may live.

It’s just, no one gives me time. Time to discover who I am right now so that I have an idea of who I want to someday be.

When I Arrive, I Bring The Fire

‘There is in all things a pattern that is part of our universe. It has symmetry, elegance, and grace – those qualities you find always in that which the true artist captures. You can find it in the turning of the seasons, in the way sand trails along a ridge, in the branch clusters of the creosote bush or the pattern of its leaves. We try to copy these patterns in our lives and our society, seeking the rhythms, the dances, the forms that comfort. Yet it is possible to see peril in the finding of ultimate perfection. It is clear that the ultimate pattern contains its own fixity. In such perfection, all things move toward death.’
                                                                                                             (Excerpt from 'Dune')

I have done some light reading on the Greek philosophers of old, and their perceptions about the nature of the world, how it fits together, and why it works the way it does. Here are a few of them that still resonate in my head:

Empedocles believed that there were only two forces in the world – Love and Strife. Love brought things together, whilst strife pulled them apart. He claimed that this explained how things could change and yet the world could stay the same.

Thales said the world floats like a log on endless water, and that all things are full of gods. But when people think of things that are full of gods, they always think about death, and sunsets, and the Niagara Falls; never of doorknobs.

Parmenides was conflicted about reality not being real. He made the beautiful observation of noting that reality could only be understood by thought – which is a disastrous notion in itself. The rational mind is a terrible tool for the job, as it only seeks logic. It searches for justice, and never considers that there may be none. It has this notion, which it clings to, that the truth would save us, though it is quite obvious that precisely the opposite is often true.

Heraclitus was bothered by the fact that everything changes. This perpetual change in the world happens whether or not we notice it. He concluded that since fire changes everything it touches, fire is to blame. Everywhere we look, the world is on fire, burning invisibly, changing before our very eyes.

What senses do we lack that we cannot see or hear another world around us? How do we know we know what we think we know? And if we find that after all we don’t know what it is that we once thought we knew, how do we know we are who we think we are, or thought we were yesterday? You follow?
The thing about being alive is that we have a false sense of control. The world works, whether or not we are an active part of it.

Newton’s Third Law states that for every action, there is an equal but opposite reaction. I’ve taken this out of the mechanical physics context and applied it to what we know as karma. Let me clear something up: It does not work in the future tense. It works pretty much as Newton summed it up – everything you do to me is already being done to you.

I Want To Breathe

I want to breathe as I want to write.
I need to write as I need to feel.
I must feel as I must live.

I hope things are beautiful. And when they're not, I hope to remember this moment in which they are. Someone you haven't even met yet is wondering what it'd be like to know someone like you. Can you understand? For all my despair, for all my dejection - my life is still a myriad of colours that I cannot comprehend. As soon as you think you are done, you are. So keep learning. Never be done.


What does it cost me to share my life with you?
What do I lose by giving you all that is me? You may have my name, share my knowledge, bask in my humanness. This will seem precious for all of three seconds, but then what will you do with it? What will you die protecting?

We feel that to reveal embarrassing or private things, we have given someone something. That, like a primitive person fearing that a photographer will steal his soul by taking a picture, we identify our secrets, our pasts and their blotches with our identity, that revealing our habits or losses or deeds somehow makes one less of oneself.

But it's just the opposite. More is more is more - more bleeding, more giving.
When you find someone with whom you feel you can share your words with, you stop in shock at all that you are - it all feels rusty, feeble, everything you are seems meaningless from having been cramped in the small, dark recesses of selfdom for so long.

"Life has been some combination of fairy tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning."  ~ Sylvia Plath

Who you want to be is not nearly as important as who you are right now.
I see skies that aren't there, and I read words that were never written. To have a mind that is so beautiful and full, it is annihilating. I need to breathe so that I may share myself with you. All of this so that you may have a part of me in you, and I will never die.

Paint

People make me angry.
So incredibly angry.
I am a temperamental being, and am easily frustrated or irritated. But anger is new.

It gets to a point where my internal rage is at risk of exploding.
But I am very rarely outwardly angry. You've not experienced my anger.
It would hurt people, I know this much. So what do I do? I keep pushing it further down, searching for more crevices in the deep, dank recesses of my mind. Thus far, it's been an effective shock absorber. That is correct; I absorb the aftermath stemming from tumultuous earthquakes, violent eruptions from the blood lava that brings me to life. Each day, I find myself ebbing in and out, bleeding into myself.
It scares me to think that someday, someone might see all that is raw within me. The putrid stains left on the wallpaper of my brain, the ugly remnants of my own insanity having feasted upon me. It makes me cry, because of what my anger is insidiously doing to me. I cry because I keep myself alive so that I may destroy.

The Hierarchy

There is an unspoken hierarchy of readers. It is determined by the way in which they tackle a book.

At the top of this imagined pyramid are the purists – people who read to soak up the elegantly constructed literary style and savour brilliant metaphors, inventive characters, breath-taking imagery, and sparkling dialogue. These are people who appreciate words, in themselves. The story is beside the point. In fact, many of them believe the plot is a mere distraction from the art. They see the wood beyond the trees, as it were. I dare count myself among them.

Not far behind are the academics – readers whose infatuation stems from the classroom, perhaps the first novel they were made to analyse and never got over it. They’re often underlining or highlighting, turning down pages, looking up words they’re not familiar with, and scribbling pithy comments in the margins. These readers are those that appreciate by thorough dissection and analysis.

The book worshippers are next. They ensure all their books are covered, preach about bookmarks, and absolutely NEVER let a book touch the floor. They look at the book as a sentient being, a living, breathing object of desire that must be treated with utmost respect. They make a point to read every word, every footnote, every single detail.

And then there are the readers who just want a good old-fashioned story and make no qualms about it. They skip over long descriptive paragraphs, skim through digressions, and zero in on the who-what-where to the nth degree. A subcategory of this is people who read books for sex, violence, or any other particular proclivity, and speed-read passages that don’t interest them or don’t stick to the canon.

How about them multitask readers, hmm? Those who read while cooking, cleaning, talking on the phone, or driving. Which is stupid. These people often boast about their vast collection of e-Books. THOSE ARE NOT REAL BOOKS FFS. Nothing can compare to the sensual feelings paper between your fingers can evoke.

The bottom feeders come next and include the status readers, a group of wannabes who don’t really want to read the book at all, but want to be seen with it – like arm candy, the proverbial young blonde on the arm of a famed tycoon. They skim the book for plot and carry it around like a designer bag. For shame.
Even worse are the people who listen to audio books, the new version of condensed books, or read novelisations of current movies. These people consider themselves readers, but they’re not. They’re just hopping onto any old bandwagon in the hopes of being included in conversations. Know this now; I will not endure you. I ought to group the narcoleptics in this category of non-readers. People who’ve had the same books sitting on their bedside table for months, and also the bathroom readers; you know, the ones with magazine racks near the toilet that hold dog-eared collections of outdated YOU magazines. You disgust me.

But let’s not forget the hopeless unfinishers – people who like choosing books, buying books, starting books, but the only thing they can’t seem to do is finish the book. They continually deceive themselves, thinking this is the one book they are going to read all the way through, and I do think they are well-intentioned, but like diets and New Year’s resolutions, the will to persevere usually fades. Alas.

However, in my opinion, the most frustrating category is the people who read a book, and JUST DON’T GET IT. I hate when I have to point out a most obvious lack of comprehension to one of these.

There are hundreds more subcategories. I might delve into those in my next rant.

You're Stupid

Interacting with people is a difficult process if you're nothing like them.
This is because most people are stupid.

Typical conversational question: "How do you come up with such cool ideas? Please tell me so I can be as cool as you." Now I don't know how to answer this enquiry without insulting the person. I don't want to say, "I'm sorry to report that if your brain does not create ideas, you are dead." And I can't say, "Everyone gets ideas. If you're getting bad ideas, it's probably because your brain is defective." My most likely reply would be, "I'm far too busy to be bothered with your ludicrous and insignificant question. But thank you for asking." The truth is, there's just no graceful way out.

In fact, from now on, I'm going to charge anybody who gives me their opinion. People are idiots. If I have to listen to their opinions, I deserve compensation.

Now let's consider why people are stupid:

1. Stupidity doesn't hinder reproduction.

Humans are a rapidly growing element of Earth's ecosystem. There are more and more of us all the time. As species go, we are incredibly successful. But stupid people have been around since the beginning, right? There always has been stupid people, and there's no dearth of them now. We like to allude our evolutionary success to the fact that we are able to survive longer than our caveman predecessors, hence the increase in populace. If that were so, then cockroaches rule the world - they have the numbers, and they're not stupid enough to believe that it's because of the size of their brains.

Stupid people breed. Exponentially. Stupidity actually enables the growth of the population quite a bit. Think about people who get married, have kids, and say - "Now why did I do that? Oh yeah, I was stupid." Not thinking clearly is very helpful in making the whole mystery of chemical attraction seem worth pursuing. The bonding process, which is essential for human survival, doesn't give a damn about what we think of as smartness, it cares about irrationality and chemicals, both of which it highly values. None of us would put up with each other for a moment if it weren't for the saving graces of stupidity and bonding.

2. Nothing shocks us anymore.

Many times I see people doing something stupid, and I'll proclaim to myself as such. That emotional jolt I experience is my brain's way of reminding me to never be as stupid as the person I just saw. This is my body mapping out what I should and shouldn't do, and making it stick by attaching it to some emotion (usually disgust, because people are disgusting). In modern times, however, it has become socially acceptable to do stupid things. Think of something like Jackass that commends stupidity. People witness such idiocy with reverence. They're way past the point of being disgusted because their brain no longer recognises the difference between stupidity and humanness. They never will experience the profound visceral stupidity reaction that heralds intelligence. Sigh.

3. People are sheep.

And I don't mean they taste good. Okay, maybe they do.
What I was referring to was the inability of Other People to make informed decisions for themselves, mainly because they lack the desire to actually attain information. Instead, they are led almost willingly by others.

Technology magnifies the ability of one person to have a big impact on other people. Sadly, these positions of power are held by the people who are equally as stupid - but have a larger ego. This explains why stupidity is immune to education - all the educated ones are holed up together, getting infinitely more intelligent (refer to previous blog post), while the rest of humanity tends towards the other extreme.

I assure you, the limit does not exist.

In fact, it is my belief that scientists will eventually learn how to convert stupidity into clean fuel. It is truly the only unlimited source of energy.

Ant Farm. Because Aliens.

There is much speculation about whether or not life exists on other planets.

Mostly, we wonder if these super-advanced beings are so bored with their own planet that they're willing to travel thousands of lightyears to stick objects into the orifices of Earthlings. Because we're entirely self-absorbed and are too lazy to imagine ourselves developing a way for us to find them. We're saving our technological prowess for developing toilets that flush themselves. Yeah.

I couldn't imagine how these presumably highly intelligent life forms would find us entertaining. But then again, we are considered an advanced civilisation, and there are plenty of people who give me reason to doubt that claim. For reasons beyond comprehension there is actually a sport called Worm Charming.  Ranking right up there with watching paint dry and grass grow, the object is to charm the worms from the earth by using water and vibrating the soil. Yes, these people live among us. So it got me thinking, maybe the aliens that deign to visit Earth are not the cream of the alien crop? Maybe the aliens that visit are not the same ones that invented space travel back on their planet? You know, ordinary did-you-buy-milk-and-bread kind of aliens. Just look at the people you drive past on the freeway; how many of them could have invented a car?

There is so much of information available about alien abductions and UFO sightings on the internet. People who have 'actual footage' of these events that they were lucky enough to witness. And all these grainy images resemble saucers and garbage can lids. What are the odds that so many garbage can lids are flying around without our notice? It's just so much more likely that the skies are filled with unidentified flying spacecrafts. Well-played, aliens.

I think we can logically conclude that the photo evidence are accounts of visits from other life forms. That begs the question, where are they from? The popular view is that these creatures are from a distant planet. This assumes three things about our aliens:

1. They are capable of intergalactic travel.
2. They are capable of finding us in the vastness of space.
3. Their stealth technology makes images of their ships resemble grainy pictures of garbage can lids.

As plausible as this may seem, we must consider my theory on the other logical alternative: There are already aliens living among us, they are just smart enough to stay hidden from the general population. Consider: is it easier to build a spaceship capable of intergalactic travel, or hide behind some trees? I mean, look at fuel prices. 

You may have noticed that our world harbours many people who are smarter than others. For example, the average IQ of the general population is 100. On the other side of the spectrum, we have the Byron Brassels and Marilyn vos Savants, who tip the scales at around 200 on the IQ scale. From their perspective, there is little difference between the average individual and a dog, except maybe the dog is cuter. Who do you think they'd rather spend time with?

I'm guessing they wouldn't want to hang around with the plebeians. Being super-smart, they would find an alternative. They would find a place where they could live among one another, and create an elaborate cover story to keep the plebs away. Maybe such a place exists on Earth. And the people who live there are the aliens. 

Naturally, these aliens would be distinguishable from the public by these simple measures:

• They would not partake in wars.
• They would carry with them very, very accurate pocket watches.
• They would appreciate fine chocolates and coffees.
• Their pocketknives would be extraordinary.
• They would have the highest standard of living.
• They would understand all my jokes.

Every other weekend, when they aren't feigning a living by constructing intricate mathematical functions and defying gravity, they take their hovercrafts out for a spin and go trolling for people with cameras. It's a game, see. And my hypothesis is that after years of progressive evolution, these super-smart beings would have evolved into skinny, grey creatures with huge eyes, but by then, the plebeians would all have nuked each other, and then they would have no reason to hide. 

You may think I'm jumping to conclusions here, but is this not what we fear from them? Total world domination. This is my theory, and in the future you will see that I am right. 

Need I Say More?

Schadenfreude

Once again, my mind wanders to the mystery that is humanness. What is this human condition we are so quick to blame for our lapses in rationality? What is this unfathomable notion we allude to our primal behaviour?

Curiosity is the lust of the mind. We are inquisitive beings. Thankfully, along with this penchant for discovering the depths of ourselves, we have a sense of rationality to bind us to sanity. People like to believe that the power lies in the majority, and yet, we are NOT a democratic entity. How is it that what we deem right and wrong has been based on how many believe it to be true?

Schadenfreude. This beautiful word is a truth we choose to avoid.
It ought not to be secret that it is 'human condition' to derive pleasure from the pain of others. And we succumb, openly. I have been known to disregard euphemisms on the principle of being honest with myself about the person I am to become. But what has language taught me? Synonyms. I have pride in the fact that my vocabulary is immense, but again, why is it so? Why do we need words that are similar to other words?
It is because we are afraid of being the animals we despise. So we mask our treacherous deeds and intentions with a seemingly amiable motive.

Form follows function.

A person who has been known to give themselves up for the goodwill of others is praised as a martyr, as an admirable soul. Now think of this in context of our natural beings, our primal purpose, if you will. It is our instinct to beat opposition and seek first for ourselves. So technically, there is nothing we do for others out of pure good will, because we seek something, anything, in this bargain.
"You make my dopamine levels go all silly."
Is it inconceivable to believe that people would 'do good' in order to feel good? Empathy is not natural. It is, reader, another of these blasphemous euphemisms.

It is the irony in sterilising the needle before injecting a person on death row. How utterly human of us to shield ourselves from ourselves. And to what cause? Does this make it any more palatable?

Perhaps there is a critical age for learning how to empathise. It's like language, which linguists have discovered will not develop spontaneously or correctly to a child that is not exposed to speech before the onset of puberty. Something to do with lateralisation of the brain, maybe? In any case, it is my opinion that empathy is a result of social conditioning. There is a cut-off point where what you have never learnt becomes an emotion that you can only imitate. You are forever denied the human experience.

We become what we experience. It is not an easy task to be a muse.
Think, to have inspired that, to have known oneself to be the object of an irrational and glorious desire, the source and instrument of love, a thing of beauty...

It has been so profoundly disappointing to be an observer of the human experiment, to see with such clarity, but to be so unmoved. Beating out a shout that echoes unanswered and forever in a dark cave, for a life to be driven by passions so fully regarded.

Is there even one modicum of evidence to suggest that we know the difference between right and wrong?

You Are What Answers You Get To Questions You Didn't Ask

My attraction to misunderstood underdogs has led me to peculiar fandom.

Charles Horton Cooley once said, "One who shows signs of mental aberration is, inevitably, perhaps, but cruelly shut off from the familiar, thoughtless intercourse, partly excommunicated; his isolation is unwittingly proclaimed to him on every countenance by curiosity, indifference, aversion, or pity, and insofar as he is human enough to need free and equal communication and feel the lack of it, he suffers pain and a loss of a kind and degree which others can only faintly imagine, and for the most part ignore."

It's a big deal to not feel part of something bigger than the selfdom we subconsciously create. It's the human condition to assimilate in order to be appreciated, or at the very least, acknowledged. No one wants to be the Forever Alone guy.

We are artists experimenting with new styles. We are two lovers inventing a new form of singular relation between us. How daunting is it that what we create is most probably not new to the world, but just to ours?
Let's discuss the wilderness of being.

How do we decide upon which factors aid us in judging one another? Truths always come from elsewhere. Are you constantly evaluating yourself? Why are you?
Consider the function of your time and the eternity of your present. So much potential. We never begin from scratch. There is no clean slate. All we are is stored in the great database in the sky, and people hold grudges. When is resorting to one's primal desire for affection a negative? Why do we crave adoration and acceptance, even from lesser beings? It is the human condition to make us fall prey to the notion of power. We encounter the desire to police, dominate, subordinate, and render subservient. Don't give in.

BE A CREATION OF CONCEPTS.
These things never fall readily into one's straining arms. They must be constructed. We want to be towers. We want to be the focus of the panoramic view. Concepts are not ideas (unpopular opinion). They are tangible. They are tools. It makes as much sense to ask "Is this concept true?" as to ask "Is this pencil true?" But this is the kind of question few, like myself, would find an engaging topic of conversation. What everyone wants to know is, "What does it do?"

So, what do you do, my little concepts?

Answer things in silence.

Oops, I Forgot To Take My Meekness Pills And Inherit The Earth

No one succumbs to a temptation they find unattractive. What is it, this compulsion to scrawl things on blank pages? Why this boundless out-flowing of words? What drives me to it? Is writing some sort of disease, or - being speech in visual form - is it simply a manifestation of being human?

Language is lyrical. I become offended when people don't make the effort to understand what I say, and why I choose the words I do. Why is no one curious? I don't understand how someone could not be bewitched by language, enthralled by linguistic propagation, the miracle of inventiveness that can spawn such gems as 'cyanosed' or 'perspicacity'. When I wrote essays in school, I was chided for using words that are less commonly known among people. This confused me. People don't savour the gift of a sentence, or delight in how a word defines the object and becomes forever inseparable from the concept. And this, of course, the very essence of humanity, is the universe I set out to conquer.

Sometimes I fear that I reduce language to a quantifiable process. I peel back the skin to examine semantics and split seams to make sense and extract the logical clauses. I conduct autopsies to excise its tumourous ambiguity, classify and grade the natural exuberance, demystify the miracle, bag it up and explain it away. It's a deflowering of sorts, this desire to harness the fundamental power of language - and it's entirely preposterous - it is tantamount to a rejection of language as irrational, illogical, inexplicable, impure. Perhaps it is a response borne out of fear - a fear of the inexpressible, all that cannot be explained. For all my efforts in understanding language, I do see that mystery is closer to love than familiarity.

I am a theatre of processes. I am the prey to an imperfect vision, to the grandiose colossus that is language.
It is a process of demystification that creates the illusion of control.

The Semantics of Murder

"The difference between a crime of evil and a crime of illness is the difference between a sin and a symptom."

I've never understood why people have an affinity for living. Why would you want to survive?
Survival, not death, is the real mystery. The instinct to cling on gasping and serve your time is a concept that is both underrated and under-explored. Even in the face of unending pain and inevitable death, humans beg for the chance to live in the world they've done nothing but complain about after having destroyed it. I've never understood the appeal.

Recently, I've had the pleasure of discussing the semantics of murder with Cavie and Akshar, and they've helped me realise what's so beautiful about murder. A particular method of murder, incidentally.

I am stunned by the intimacy of strangulation.

The act of stifling the life force of a person, somewhat absorbing them into you, gaining strength from their growing weakness and thriving off their futile willingness to survive... It's thoroughly engaging.
It has none of the distance of a gun shot or stab wound; none of the impersonality of a weapon. It is a passive way to kill, and an almost feminine way to die. The act of murder is a calculating decision. It is not acted out for the moment of death, but rather for the process of dying. It is an act of real and complete engagement, for it is intensely personal. This is how you kill when love meets hate, when you become so consumed by your victim that your body must become the weapon. It's an intense desire to crush the fragile windpipe and feel the warmth ebbing out of a body before it becomes inanimate in your arms.

And then, the quiet aftermath ensues.
Introspection. Time for both the killer and the victim to reflect on how they could both have avoided this outcome. Time to consider their flaws. It's a brazen opportunity for pure remorse as the victim experiences a final expiring embrace. Now can you see how little there is that separates love from hate?

You've watched the grand finale. There is a certain romance in dying in front of an audience. You wish for a beauty in death, not unlike Juliet or Cleopatra. But in reality, death is an ugly affair. Stay ugly.

All that's left is the rest of your life. Don't make a fool of yourself by trying to escape. Endure the purgatory of waiting and take the consequences without objection. This is the story of your life. You've spent a lifetime enduring the mundane plot with predictable twists, and you're about to experience the short-lived peak of another. This is why you live. This is why it has never occurred to you to end it all - your life is a vigorous and persistent search in the hopes that your story will end differently, and not merely confirm the absence of something essential and elusive.

When I imagine death, it is rich in its anticipation, but so utterly barren after delivery. It becomes very quickly anti-climatic to me. If I cannot fathom love, then I cannot experience the agony of loss. I do not feel your pain. I am only able to observe the gaping void within me where the stem of my humanity must have withered and died before it could blossom. 

The Cognitive Condition Of My Brain Is Currently Compromised

How could anyone be sure if who they are is what they see in a mirror?

Memory is a wonderful selective. We cling to the peripherals in moments of stress, little slivers of reality that construct a defence against the trauma. But what is not of any certainty is the memory itself. Memories change because how we want to remember them changes. People who feature in our lives never play a consistent part. In this manner, we are all storytellers, because everything we witness becomes fiction in a retelling. We remember people and their actions in context of how we feel about them in a particular moment. Experiments! We are all each other's experiments in an encounter.

Why do we ask questions? If you just listen long enough, you hear everything you need to know. Observation is a rewarding conquest. I've watched people absorb each other's pasts until they could no longer distinguish between beginnings and endings, between truth and falsehood, ownership and possession. It's actually a great dissolution of privacy as they raid each other's lives in order to make sense of their own.

'Whoever has eyes to see and ears to hear will be persuaded that mortals can hide no secrets. He whose lips are silent speaks with his fingertips; betrayal threatens from every pore. That’s why the task of making conscious the most hidden business of the soul can be certainly resolved.'

What do we know about ourselves?

I have made some leeway with distinguishing between three commonly misused words: Emotions, Moods, and Attitudes.

I've concluded that emotions have physiological correlates – it can be seen from gestures, facial expressions. They often lead to an action, and result from a specific event. They beg the attention of an audience. This, readers, is what we practice in front of a mirror, because this is all we can control.

Moods are seemingly more complex. They have no sense of time or direction, and are not necessarily expressed physically. They also seem to have no apparent cause or source. A result of hormones, perhaps?

Attitudes definitely have a more cognitive, conscious component. It's a switch.

Reactions are not as appreciated as they ought to be. So much can be read in a glance. We need to learn to listen with our eyes. What do you despise? By this you are truly known.

“No amount of observations of white swans can allow an inference that all swans are white, but the observation of a single black swan is sufficient to refute that conclusion.” – David Hume

Certainty is a transitory experience. It is never consistent. It depends in part upon the myth-making imagination of humankind. The person who experiences the certainty must have a feeling of the myth he is in. He must reflect what is projected upon him. And he must have a strong sense of sardonic. This is what uncouples him from belief in his own pretensions. The sardonic is all that permits him to move within himself. Without this quality, even occasional certainty will destroy a man.

I want my past transposed into an extravagant storyboard with the reassurance of plot. Like you, the reader, who demands the story, a reason to turn the page, I want an ending so that there could be a beginning. 

Reader

I think of you often, reader.
In the dark, in the dark...
You know my power. But power is not strength. I trust you understand the difference.
Here I am, smashed between these walls. How is it that I always find myself here?
There are few people more stubborn than I am. And yet, I am easily swayed by seemingly fanciful notions. I could fall in love with a smile...
But it is almost impossible to fall in love with a person, in their entirety. People are oceans, planets. Undiscovered in their depths. Beautifully infinite. They are fascinating to observe and study. But as of late, I have become afraid at how rarely I am surprised anymore. The blandness ensues.
The world consists of numbers and patterns. It's the manner of their sequencing that creates this 'individualism' among us.
Nature has her ways. She is quietly devious. Beautiful and annihilating. And she makes it seem as if it were entirely your idea.
For all that we are, or could be, we are oblivious to what is of great import.
It's why we seek happiness.

Am I beautiful, dear? Beautiful on the inside?
I suppose no one is, because the inside is where we hide our wrongs.
But I am never wrong.
Am I beautiful?

Reader, your beauty exceeds this world.

O wretched mortals! Open your eyes!

LOLREADTHIS

Everyone knows I'm a misanthrope of note, right? It's not without reason. Now I know I'm much too young to be wise, but here are a few protips for living, as it were. Consider this part 1. I'll write more when I've learned more.

1. If you cannot love the life you're living, do not pretend to love the life you're living.

This may read easily, but I know it's not. The world expects us all to be sunshine and daisies, because 'there's always someone worse off.' That isn't exactly comforting, is it? You're being guilted into optimism. Forced optimism, friends, does not make you a better person. It does not change your circumstances. All it does is act as a rose-tint to your specs. You aren't blind. You can see what's ahead of you, because only you have a front view of your life. Adjust the fucking sails yourself, instead of relying on dying children in Africa to act as a comparable measure to your own life.

2. The overwhelming majority of people never think; and those who think never become the overwhelming majority. Choose your side.

This may seem disgracefully sad at first, but it's nature at work. Think about it, every creature that lives in a colony or clan has some degree of structure. A hierarchy. A vanguard. An echelon (Yes, I totally used 'echelon' for the 30STM fans). Ahem. Point being, not everyone can be the Queen Bee. Those entrusted with a higher functioning have never been amongst the plebeians. 

3. If you cannot choose, then just exist; be a mushroom or a plant.

It's human nature to be indecisive. If you're unsure about what your options are, then create your own. Be productive, but don't hinder those who have already chosen. Just exist. If this seems daunting to you because you've never strayed onto a path of your own creation before, read Sylvia Plath's 'Mushrooms'. You have so much potential. Practice the art of becoming.

4. If you have no interest in their answers, then do not ask questions.

If you've met me, you'd know that I don't speak unless I'm replying to someone I care to talk to, or am speaking about something that interests me. The world has become grievously polluted by noise. I make reference here to the dearth of real music in our times and the infiltration of mindless garbage salvaged from the Limited Lyrics Warehouse. Sadly, not many people choose their words with caution anymore. I've been subjected to the most mundane of conversations before, and ended them abruptly for lack of interest in their answers. Stop confusing friendliness with familiarity. "I've got nothing to say, and I'm saying it."

5. Nothing is as far away as a minute ago. 

I've done a post on time, before. We've established that it is relative. Today I had a most engaging conversation with Dmetri about how there is no 'now'. It's one thing to understand the concept of the present, but we can never anticipate it. We were not meant to truly react to immediacy. The 'now' we speak of passes by as we speak of it. Time traipses by ever so gracefully. Beautiful, no? Regret for wasted time is more wasted time. 

6. There are no facts; only interpretations.

This seems like some sort of noetic notion, but it's interestingly viable. There is no ultimate decider; just us. This implies that there is leeway for broader horizons, as it were. Expansion of thought occurs when interpretations are acknowledged, if not accepted. 

For all this and more to come, I regret that it takes a lifetime to learn how to live.

Lost Soul

I lay upon the damp sand that seemed to be clawing at me, and fine sprays of the ocean misted before my eyes in protest. I glanced up at the majestic stars, while a crisp breeze surrounded me. The beauty of this moment almost makes me forget what happened today. Almost. Perspective is a luxury when your head is constantly buzzing with a swarm of demons.

What had happened was no fault of mine, despite what it looked like. But I shouldn’t take myself back. These godly waves – I imagine them capturing my painful thoughts and drowning them swiftly, silently, saintly. I was in a self-induced trance, and at that moment, I understood the appeal for hallucinogens. Apathy is deliciously dreamy.

Introspection. The pain was not gone, and neither were the tears. The misery fed on me, and felt like acid scorching my skin. It had become apparent to me, only too late – the evil in people, and the careless manner in which you become disregarded if you have nothing left to give. I could sum the psyche of an entire species in a word: self. But I had made it my aim to be different – and look how far that’s got me.

I gather my strength in an effort to lift myself up – both literally and metaphorically. This used to be my happy place, where no one could find me. Or hurt me. And I didn’t have to be shared. The serenity and stillness calmed my sorrowful heart. Bliss. The waves began to ease, forming picturesque art.

It stunned me at first – only because I knew it was real. So light, so carefree, my body floated like a ragdoll. It disappeared, and then resurfaced. There was no going back, because the deed was done. The image seemed hauntingly beautiful, and framed by the incandescent moon. I accepted it only because I knew it was inevitable. I was dead.

Is this what death looked like? A painless, albeit disturbing, out-of-body experience?

I had in death what I had in life: self. I was all I had. Not someone to love me, protect me, tell me it will all get better. I just had what I knew I could rely on: self.

The beauty was returning. My soul still tossed on the sand, and I began to notice it again. I watched as the crimson rays of the mighty sun tinged the water with rainbow hues. The birth of a new day.

I could see this in context of my life. Because sometimes, our minds see what our hearts wish were true.

My modified version of an essay originally penned by my closest friend, Senrika Eshwarduth.