A million seated into one. One seated to a million. The dogma begins, just as it began yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before that.
What is it? A shout? A wail? A scream? No. It is a cry. A warcry. Who is this beast fighting now? That is not important. It is just a beast.
Robotic marching (pretty much a contrast, I suppose) entails. (It is not really a contrast though, since both a beast and a robot lack human characteristics). The robots march into the theater with a huge wide opening in the centre, leading to the cuboid. All of these are of a kind of metal, a kind of inhuman metal, unwilling to shed a tiny drop of sympathy to any of the million. (We are one, not a million! A million in a family, strange indeed.)
Everyone here has a visage, a mask, a cover from our terrible faces underneath. Human (Beast) (Robot) emotions are uniform too. (Why not uniform? We are one, a million in one!) Even though they are not uniform indeed, they look uniform enough.
The chanting, the singing. They, too, are uniform. What is different is that the chanting aren't really chanting, the singing aren't really singing. Under any of the masks their souls know darn well. The mechanical organist, once a criminal (still a criminal under his mask), plays the hypocritical song. A hypocrite with a hypocritical song. How fitting.
Being the organist is one of the most aspired jobs in the State. Why can a criminal take the place? The reason is simple: The criminal is cunning enough. He (sic! "It" is more appropriate. I wonder if it is a human anyway) knows what it takes to cheat. It knows the drill. To evict shame from your soul, to evict righteousness from your soul. Is it really that hard? No. It is easy to murder.
A bunch of insignificant notes, non-sequential, non-meaningful.
I cannot exactly recall the address by the robot on the cuboid that day. The keywords were approximately as follows: Discipline, indulgences and temptation. I guess it shouldn't really mention indulgences, because it reminds me of the indulgences in the Middle Ages. I guess that is an irony. Yes, indeed. His body is full of iron (and carbon and chromium and nickel and...)
"BULLetin. THe STAte HAs EXPAnded HEr HOLy TERRItory To THe 945th GALaxy. CONgratulations To EVEry Of OUr SOLdiers. THe INhabitants ARe TREAted PROmptly."
A round of applause. (I cannot convince myself to applaud, though)
A curse. An arrangement of notes.
Tuesday, 27 November 2012
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
Balloon
There once was a balloon. It is inflated with helium, and tethered to a nearby fence post. It doesn't like being tied to a post, though. It always dreams of a day where it can be released from this constricting string. It longed to climb the skies, see the earth and all its beauty, and, of the highest importance, to surpass all its neighbours, more balloons tied to the same railing, each with different sizes and colours. Some have a dull white or black on them, while some have a humble blue or green. Others, well, have an arrogant red or yellow demeanor. Some are rather thin with their gas, the age-old wrinkles showing up here and there, while some have the buoyant gas filled to their brims, ready to break through the railing once and for all.
A child happens to come by the balloons, tied to the railing near the street. This child could be the chance of the balloons to finally escape the restrictions on them! Immediately, the balloons pushed each other apart, trying to catch the attention of the child. The red one pushed away his neighbour, the yellow one, while being pushed away by its green neighbour. A multitude of colours simply clashing into each other relentlessly. How wonderful, how fascinating.
The yellow balloon finally won. The child paid a dollar to the salesman, and took away the yellow balloon. While the other balloons watched in envy (and some, even disgust), the yellow balloon cruised its way from the railing, never to be tied again. Is this what freedom is? Is this the feeling of fresh, pure liberation? Not yet. It soon realized that its pompous yellow body is still tethered, not to the railing, but to the child's hand. Alas! Its desires cannot be satisfied easily...
As if god himself heard the prayers of the balloon, a wind suddenly arose from the east. Overcome with joy, the yellow ball of gas struggled to escape its owner's grasp.
This could be it! This could be the only chance to eternal freedom!
After its repeated writhing, the string finally broke, and the yellow balloon rose up into the air. Freedom! It is the smell of liberation! The owner becomes smaller and smaller, and its view becomes wider and wider. It saw its past neighbours, the green balloon, still as miserable as it is, the red balloon, still angry and envious as it is. All that shrunk into a mere dot in seconds. The yellow balloon is overcome with joy: Its wish finally came true! No more tethering, no more restrictions, no more...
It could not continue its thoughts. Why? As the yellow ball of hot air rises, the air becomes thinner, and thinner, and thinner... Its thoughts becomes thinner, thinner and thinner too.
What... is... this?... I... don't... want...
A pop, too light to be audible. A death, too insignificant to be recorded.
A child happens to come by the balloons, tied to the railing near the street. This child could be the chance of the balloons to finally escape the restrictions on them! Immediately, the balloons pushed each other apart, trying to catch the attention of the child. The red one pushed away his neighbour, the yellow one, while being pushed away by its green neighbour. A multitude of colours simply clashing into each other relentlessly. How wonderful, how fascinating.
The yellow balloon finally won. The child paid a dollar to the salesman, and took away the yellow balloon. While the other balloons watched in envy (and some, even disgust), the yellow balloon cruised its way from the railing, never to be tied again. Is this what freedom is? Is this the feeling of fresh, pure liberation? Not yet. It soon realized that its pompous yellow body is still tethered, not to the railing, but to the child's hand. Alas! Its desires cannot be satisfied easily...
As if god himself heard the prayers of the balloon, a wind suddenly arose from the east. Overcome with joy, the yellow ball of gas struggled to escape its owner's grasp.
This could be it! This could be the only chance to eternal freedom!
After its repeated writhing, the string finally broke, and the yellow balloon rose up into the air. Freedom! It is the smell of liberation! The owner becomes smaller and smaller, and its view becomes wider and wider. It saw its past neighbours, the green balloon, still as miserable as it is, the red balloon, still angry and envious as it is. All that shrunk into a mere dot in seconds. The yellow balloon is overcome with joy: Its wish finally came true! No more tethering, no more restrictions, no more...
It could not continue its thoughts. Why? As the yellow ball of hot air rises, the air becomes thinner, and thinner, and thinner... Its thoughts becomes thinner, thinner and thinner too.
What... is... this?... I... don't... want...
A pop, too light to be audible. A death, too insignificant to be recorded.
Thursday, 25 October 2012
A drunkard
The night descended upon him. It was dark. It was oppressing. It hates upon anyone who travels in its territory (which, coincidentally, is the whole human population). A man, drunk, wanders on the streets. A piece of litter here, and a piece there. He tripped and fell, and tripped and fell, and yet again. But who will have pity upon a drunkard? The street lamps produce a dim cone of yellow light, alternating on the streets. Even the street lights try to avoid him. Trees stop their photosynthesis, and breathe out carbon dioxide to this tragedy of a man. Vehicles zoom by: To them, he is none but a dot. A dot that exists only for a millisecond. Yet they never fail to sound their complain. A complain of a single tone only.
A ton of bricks on his shoulders. But these bricks are no ordinary bricks. They aren't made of sand and concrete. They are made of time itself. Time... the heaviest and most poisonous substance. It pulls upon him, like a pit of quicksand. It is a disgraceful racer: It uses tricks to hinder you, yet dashes by fast. It leaves traps after it. These traps leave behind wounds that never heal. They never stop bleeding, as if to humiliate his clumsiness. Slowly, but surely, his blood drained dry, and he dies. It is a death that no one wants to die. A slow and painful death. Every second he is reminded of his fault. Every millisecond, every nanosecond.
Everyone expects perfection from him. He cannot commit crimes. He cannot even think of committing a crime. A mistake, and there is a stab. He feels so numb that even he himself doesn't know where that pain comes from: From others, from time itself, of even, from he himself. His brain is a non-resting one. He likes to write, but he has no words. He likes to read, but there are no books. Even equations betray him. Mathematics itself wants to go against him. The numbers jump out of place when his pen traces their contours. The equality sign refuses to justify his equations. His variables hide their identity from his calculator. A stab, and a stab, followed by none, but a stab.
He cries, but there are no tears. Sweat rains down his face, his neck, and his throat. His hand is so filled with sweat that it is rather useless to try to wipe away the sweat on his other body parts. He cries, and there is blood. Colourless blood. He cries, and there is no comfort. Only pitifully echoing wisps of wails. A thread by a thread, he cries his soul out. His feelings are dull, the grey wails only further engulfed by the night sky. At last, he cries, and not even sobs come out. But nobody could even tell whether he exists or not. He is just a point. His pure black suit, and his pure black trousers, and his pure black shoes, only to be accompanied by the pure black road, and the pure black sky, and the pure black shadow. He cries, and not even an atom cares.
He does not fear death. He does not fear tears. He does not fear the night. He does not fear the carbon dioxide. He does not want a "How are you?". He does not want companion. He does not want love (It stings to type this word). He does not want comfort.
What is "wanting" anyway? How can you "want" non-existent things?
A ton of bricks on his shoulders. But these bricks are no ordinary bricks. They aren't made of sand and concrete. They are made of time itself. Time... the heaviest and most poisonous substance. It pulls upon him, like a pit of quicksand. It is a disgraceful racer: It uses tricks to hinder you, yet dashes by fast. It leaves traps after it. These traps leave behind wounds that never heal. They never stop bleeding, as if to humiliate his clumsiness. Slowly, but surely, his blood drained dry, and he dies. It is a death that no one wants to die. A slow and painful death. Every second he is reminded of his fault. Every millisecond, every nanosecond.
Everyone expects perfection from him. He cannot commit crimes. He cannot even think of committing a crime. A mistake, and there is a stab. He feels so numb that even he himself doesn't know where that pain comes from: From others, from time itself, of even, from he himself. His brain is a non-resting one. He likes to write, but he has no words. He likes to read, but there are no books. Even equations betray him. Mathematics itself wants to go against him. The numbers jump out of place when his pen traces their contours. The equality sign refuses to justify his equations. His variables hide their identity from his calculator. A stab, and a stab, followed by none, but a stab.
He cries, but there are no tears. Sweat rains down his face, his neck, and his throat. His hand is so filled with sweat that it is rather useless to try to wipe away the sweat on his other body parts. He cries, and there is blood. Colourless blood. He cries, and there is no comfort. Only pitifully echoing wisps of wails. A thread by a thread, he cries his soul out. His feelings are dull, the grey wails only further engulfed by the night sky. At last, he cries, and not even sobs come out. But nobody could even tell whether he exists or not. He is just a point. His pure black suit, and his pure black trousers, and his pure black shoes, only to be accompanied by the pure black road, and the pure black sky, and the pure black shadow. He cries, and not even an atom cares.
He does not fear death. He does not fear tears. He does not fear the night. He does not fear the carbon dioxide. He does not want a "How are you?". He does not want companion. He does not want love (It stings to type this word). He does not want comfort.
What is "wanting" anyway? How can you "want" non-existent things?
Sunday, 30 September 2012
An irrational pair
1. Words
Words are formed by letters. There is some interesting mechanism here, indeed fascinating. Letters only carry sounds. They carry no personalities. They are just a tool of mankind, to express their opinions, shallow or deep, tragic or sick... But words have a soul. Words are linked together by the fabric of our emotions: the human heart is words. They have the power in them, which makes them glow in the bland white of the sheet of paper they are written on. Words can influence fate. What we say are what we mean (a rather tragic reality). As such, there are certain words that can invoke feelings, which can invoke action, revolution, war, unrest, violence, and even the ultimate destruction of mankind. More interestingly, the length of the word is not proportional to its power. Long words mean little, while seemingly small words, five-lettered words, carry a poisonous dart, which immobilizes anyone daring enough to intrude its premise. Even the imagination of it is a sin. Yet it can never be avoided. It can be avoided at all costs in conversations and speeches, but it never leaves the heart.
2. The integral
The integral... ah... how mysterious. It is a symbol of Riemann summation, to sum up infinitely small parts together. Infinitely small trickles of feelings, combined with the function of emotion, are merged together. How quaint of a symbol, the integral. It sews together the fabric of his heart, and brews the recipe for drunkenness . It is what makes us human, the integral in our hearts. Every incident, every bit of memory, every sight of her, is an infinitesimal, a dx. The integral crawls on the contour of the function of his body, picking up every hair, every cell, every muscle, and shocks it with dx. Any instantaneous ability of thought is removed, and is replaced with uncontrolled areas and regions. Every point has its own location; Every line has its own direction. But for area... It is irrational, it is blurred, it is shaded, it is... S.
Words are formed by letters. There is some interesting mechanism here, indeed fascinating. Letters only carry sounds. They carry no personalities. They are just a tool of mankind, to express their opinions, shallow or deep, tragic or sick... But words have a soul. Words are linked together by the fabric of our emotions: the human heart is words. They have the power in them, which makes them glow in the bland white of the sheet of paper they are written on. Words can influence fate. What we say are what we mean (a rather tragic reality). As such, there are certain words that can invoke feelings, which can invoke action, revolution, war, unrest, violence, and even the ultimate destruction of mankind. More interestingly, the length of the word is not proportional to its power. Long words mean little, while seemingly small words, five-lettered words, carry a poisonous dart, which immobilizes anyone daring enough to intrude its premise. Even the imagination of it is a sin. Yet it can never be avoided. It can be avoided at all costs in conversations and speeches, but it never leaves the heart.
2. The integral
The integral... ah... how mysterious. It is a symbol of Riemann summation, to sum up infinitely small parts together. Infinitely small trickles of feelings, combined with the function of emotion, are merged together. How quaint of a symbol, the integral. It sews together the fabric of his heart, and brews the recipe for drunkenness . It is what makes us human, the integral in our hearts. Every incident, every bit of memory, every sight of her, is an infinitesimal, a dx. The integral crawls on the contour of the function of his body, picking up every hair, every cell, every muscle, and shocks it with dx. Any instantaneous ability of thought is removed, and is replaced with uncontrolled areas and regions. Every point has its own location; Every line has its own direction. But for area... It is irrational, it is blurred, it is shaded, it is... S.
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
Music
"Everyone must go crazy - as soon as possible"
His expression is cold. There is no doubt about that. A piece of wood, very well-decorated wood I must say. It is meticulously crafted, carefully calculated, rigorously designed, such that it can produce a combination of sound waves that gives comfort to the human ear. But it is wood after all. It sat on his legs, also having a very apathetic expression (A piece of wood has an expression?). He is in the spotlight too, slightly elevated. Clapping only produces sounds. The image of clapping is not regarded. Is it that unreasonable to acknowledge the supporters?
A wave of vibration sprung from the metal strings. The infinitely tiny bumps of the tail of a horse (I would not comment any further) hooked against the thin wire. It was as if the air itself is singing. The air itself sung a poignant tune. Patriotic? Oh no it was definitely not! What does being patriotic even mean? It means nothing nowadays. When even a person cannot be patriotic, the counterpart of the personification simply falls apart.
Who should interrupt this epic melody with such an idiotic topic of discussion? The tail continued to dance in between the wires. A waltz, a rondo, a minuet... It actually does not comply with any form of dance. A dance according to a format does not contain heart, and a dance not containing heart is hardly a dance. How simple. How delightfully simple.
It may seem that I am throwing a lot of questions at you today, but life is a question after all. So is music. Music is a question too. It questions the truth from the audience. It questions the brutality of humankind. Though repetitive of a few tones and semitones, the composition is brought to live. One can see the colours in a piece: Red? Blue? Yellow? Or even Cyan. It must be a mixture, though. A pure colour is too shallow. Music is colour to our ears, and no one likes to see monotone, bland pictures.
Oh, an allegro! Not really. The pace has been elevated. The music talks about the value of humanity. Nobody likes hearing the value, though. They have all kinds of method to escape from it. One of them is through music. However, music, rather ironically, tries to TELL you the value. It is crying it out loud. But they only stop at the waves. No message.
Too rational to enter the realm of music. Maybe humanity is just too rational. How can we escape from rationality? Well. I cannot answer you that. I am far too rational too. Come to think about it, you would be thinking too rationally if you are to think of how to go irrational.
The bow is put down again. Waves have vibrated our eardrums, but has music entered your ears?
His expression is cold. There is no doubt about that. A piece of wood, very well-decorated wood I must say. It is meticulously crafted, carefully calculated, rigorously designed, such that it can produce a combination of sound waves that gives comfort to the human ear. But it is wood after all. It sat on his legs, also having a very apathetic expression (A piece of wood has an expression?). He is in the spotlight too, slightly elevated. Clapping only produces sounds. The image of clapping is not regarded. Is it that unreasonable to acknowledge the supporters?
A wave of vibration sprung from the metal strings. The infinitely tiny bumps of the tail of a horse (I would not comment any further) hooked against the thin wire. It was as if the air itself is singing. The air itself sung a poignant tune. Patriotic? Oh no it was definitely not! What does being patriotic even mean? It means nothing nowadays. When even a person cannot be patriotic, the counterpart of the personification simply falls apart.
Who should interrupt this epic melody with such an idiotic topic of discussion? The tail continued to dance in between the wires. A waltz, a rondo, a minuet... It actually does not comply with any form of dance. A dance according to a format does not contain heart, and a dance not containing heart is hardly a dance. How simple. How delightfully simple.
It may seem that I am throwing a lot of questions at you today, but life is a question after all. So is music. Music is a question too. It questions the truth from the audience. It questions the brutality of humankind. Though repetitive of a few tones and semitones, the composition is brought to live. One can see the colours in a piece: Red? Blue? Yellow? Or even Cyan. It must be a mixture, though. A pure colour is too shallow. Music is colour to our ears, and no one likes to see monotone, bland pictures.
Oh, an allegro! Not really. The pace has been elevated. The music talks about the value of humanity. Nobody likes hearing the value, though. They have all kinds of method to escape from it. One of them is through music. However, music, rather ironically, tries to TELL you the value. It is crying it out loud. But they only stop at the waves. No message.
Too rational to enter the realm of music. Maybe humanity is just too rational. How can we escape from rationality? Well. I cannot answer you that. I am far too rational too. Come to think about it, you would be thinking too rationally if you are to think of how to go irrational.
The bow is put down again. Waves have vibrated our eardrums, but has music entered your ears?
Thursday, 23 August 2012
Madness
I did not have a good feeling about this. I was about to visit an old friend of mine. He was a great scientist since I knew him, but had turned mad for quite some time. Come to think about it, he had been mad for 16 years. We did research together, learned together, graduated together... Now he didn't even remember me.
I walked into his room. It was gloomy and pale. There was a portrait of a creature I did not even recognize (a green one). His hands were trembling: He was old, like me. His hair turned all grey and most fell off, visible near his bed. He looked at me, with a special kind of demeanor which I could not easily record. It was a concoction of familiarity and fear, steadfastness and uneasiness. As with everyone whom he met, he told me a story (He would repeat it every time I visited him). I would not call it a story, since it has no beginning, no climax, nor an ending. But I guess it was my job to tell it to you, the reader.
"Everything I listen was not what I want to hear. Everything I spoke was not what I wanted to speak. I am the most unfortunate. You need to agree.
"I looked into the clouds, the skies. I found some beauty there. The clouds hinge towards the sky. It was a turtle, a reptile, a ... Oh! Accursed be it! ... I saw the buildings. There were many buildings. I hate the buildings though. People live in them, work in them, learn in them, and die in them eventually. It was the tombstone of humankind. But there was one building I had known since I was a child.
"The building was hideous. I hated everything associated with it. The white and grey textures, the undecorated walls, the insipid wooden tables and chairs. Even one thought of it makes me want to puke. But things changed when I met ... (He points at the painting) ... It was a dream of yellow, red, green, and white. I saw wild cars chasing each other. Wait! They weren't cars. They are horses. No! They are diamonds! Glittering at all directions.
"They started to say bad things about me. They tell me I am stupid. They tell me I am demented. They describe me with every derogatory adjective, and I did not say anything. They won't listen. They are machines fueled by the giant Generator. The Generator is a nuclear one. It radiates harmful radiation all around its surroundings. I found out that it was so huge that its radiation penetrates through the whole world. It was true. It charred everyone's heart black, rendering nothing but poisonous slimy goo... (He curls himself up)
"The feelings I like lasted short, while the feelings I hate lasted long. I had a whole life behind me to tell. It was mostly of horror, so I would advise you to grab a pillow first: It is going to be nasty.
"They started to persecute me. Everyone alienated me. While I was playing my violin... I remember the song! It was the sonata in G minor by Bach...
"I did not know why I ended up here. The flowers here are pretty though. I like to play with my cat, Cyanide (He pats the pillow beside him like it were his pet). He was a wild one, look out for his claws. Anyway, where was I? Oh here. Meet my friend, CFGB. (He shows me a picture of someone I did not know from under his pillow. I have seen it many times, since he shows it to me every time he sees me) She is the dearest person I have ever met. I actually doubt if she is a person. She... she...
"I looked into the night sky, the stars. I was climbing a hill, a very tall one. I nearly ran out of food and water. Oh look! The stars went brighter and brighter. The sun, the moon, and the stars coexisted. I saw the future and the past. The stars zoomed past me, while the sun was slower. Wait! There were more suns coming up. The moon had a smile. What? What smile? The deceptive one? Ha! I thought I knew that! My grey hair turned black. My strength lost through time was regained. I stood up. Bach's sonata was still playing. I heard a distant cry. Who was that? OH NO! A gaping mouth! Staring eyes! Oscillating nose! It shouted curses unable to be recognized. It spew out acid. It was hydrochloric acid too. Ow! My hands! My legs! My whole body started to unwillingly twitch. The agony. It was unbearable!..."
He twitched in his bed, while the doctor walked in. The doctor gave him a shot, and he stopped twitching, falling tranquilly into his slumber in a matter of seconds.
I left the room and headed back to my laboratory. I saw the flowers. They were yellow, red, green and white. And they were pretty beautiful after all. They looked into my eyes, as if they were singing a poignant melody.
Sometimes I like to stare into flowers. At least flowers don't talk.
I walked into his room. It was gloomy and pale. There was a portrait of a creature I did not even recognize (a green one). His hands were trembling: He was old, like me. His hair turned all grey and most fell off, visible near his bed. He looked at me, with a special kind of demeanor which I could not easily record. It was a concoction of familiarity and fear, steadfastness and uneasiness. As with everyone whom he met, he told me a story (He would repeat it every time I visited him). I would not call it a story, since it has no beginning, no climax, nor an ending. But I guess it was my job to tell it to you, the reader.
"Everything I listen was not what I want to hear. Everything I spoke was not what I wanted to speak. I am the most unfortunate. You need to agree.
"I looked into the clouds, the skies. I found some beauty there. The clouds hinge towards the sky. It was a turtle, a reptile, a ... Oh! Accursed be it! ... I saw the buildings. There were many buildings. I hate the buildings though. People live in them, work in them, learn in them, and die in them eventually. It was the tombstone of humankind. But there was one building I had known since I was a child.
"The building was hideous. I hated everything associated with it. The white and grey textures, the undecorated walls, the insipid wooden tables and chairs. Even one thought of it makes me want to puke. But things changed when I met ... (He points at the painting) ... It was a dream of yellow, red, green, and white. I saw wild cars chasing each other. Wait! They weren't cars. They are horses. No! They are diamonds! Glittering at all directions.
"They started to say bad things about me. They tell me I am stupid. They tell me I am demented. They describe me with every derogatory adjective, and I did not say anything. They won't listen. They are machines fueled by the giant Generator. The Generator is a nuclear one. It radiates harmful radiation all around its surroundings. I found out that it was so huge that its radiation penetrates through the whole world. It was true. It charred everyone's heart black, rendering nothing but poisonous slimy goo... (He curls himself up)
"The feelings I like lasted short, while the feelings I hate lasted long. I had a whole life behind me to tell. It was mostly of horror, so I would advise you to grab a pillow first: It is going to be nasty.
"They started to persecute me. Everyone alienated me. While I was playing my violin... I remember the song! It was the sonata in G minor by Bach...
"I did not know why I ended up here. The flowers here are pretty though. I like to play with my cat, Cyanide (He pats the pillow beside him like it were his pet). He was a wild one, look out for his claws. Anyway, where was I? Oh here. Meet my friend, CFGB. (He shows me a picture of someone I did not know from under his pillow. I have seen it many times, since he shows it to me every time he sees me) She is the dearest person I have ever met. I actually doubt if she is a person. She... she...
"I looked into the night sky, the stars. I was climbing a hill, a very tall one. I nearly ran out of food and water. Oh look! The stars went brighter and brighter. The sun, the moon, and the stars coexisted. I saw the future and the past. The stars zoomed past me, while the sun was slower. Wait! There were more suns coming up. The moon had a smile. What? What smile? The deceptive one? Ha! I thought I knew that! My grey hair turned black. My strength lost through time was regained. I stood up. Bach's sonata was still playing. I heard a distant cry. Who was that? OH NO! A gaping mouth! Staring eyes! Oscillating nose! It shouted curses unable to be recognized. It spew out acid. It was hydrochloric acid too. Ow! My hands! My legs! My whole body started to unwillingly twitch. The agony. It was unbearable!..."
He twitched in his bed, while the doctor walked in. The doctor gave him a shot, and he stopped twitching, falling tranquilly into his slumber in a matter of seconds.
I left the room and headed back to my laboratory. I saw the flowers. They were yellow, red, green and white. And they were pretty beautiful after all. They looked into my eyes, as if they were singing a poignant melody.
Sometimes I like to stare into flowers. At least flowers don't talk.
Monday, 13 August 2012
Tales of the insignificant
It is quite a fascinating phenomenon how our whole human population, somewhat to the billions, only surround that of a mere few hundreds, or at most, thousands. There are names we all know: From truly talented to somewhat truly talented. Whether their means are simple or complicated, moral or destructive, ambitious or lucky, all of the "celebrities" are granted the gift of recognition. Whatever they say, whatever they do, there would be attention drawn to them, down to the most trivial things of their lives. Accept it: This is how most people on this planet of ours feel important and recognized. This is how people find their purpose to live.
Sometimes it is not the talent that is celebrated. Maybe it is simply the wits and endurance of the shame that is brought to them when put into a high position. Yes. It is shame which prevents most from following their ambitions. After all, if any shame is present in a person, it would bar him from performing the pretentious tricks which allows him to be celebrated without talent. Any reasonably intelligent person would immediately realize how worthless actual intelligence is, and decide to pursue a path to fame without intelligence: Somehow the only path nowadays to even some recognition. We receive information at such a rate that it is impossible to discern from right or wrong. As with how the disused organ is removed via evolution, the ability to distinguish information has been reduced to a trickle.
I cannot exempt myself from those who struggle for fame. In a sense, everyone is doing so. Do you really think anyone would study for no rewards whatsoever? To study and get a decent job is also a form of recognition: A recognition of your efforts and your value in the society. Yet does recognition mean anything? Maybe it resembles "reality", but definitely lacks representation of reality.
That brings us to reality. Is reality valued anymore? Well, evidently it is to some extent: Science has developed throughout the ages. But does science bring us to reality? In fact, it brings us away from reality. It simply provides more ways we can acquaint to "reality": Phones, computers, air conditioners all are products of science, yet they simply diverts us away from the pursuit of reality. Is science destroying itself?
But is "reality" really the only way out? Even the definition of reality is ambiguous, hence the quotation marks. Sometimes, although science discerns reality, it cannot be said that it is "realistic", at least to the macroscopic pragmatic observer. The fact that a uniform shell of charge appears to behave like a point charge to an external reference point is reality, but is not "realistic", at least to those who do not find a use for electromagnetism in their lives.
"Reality" is destructive indeed. "Reality" evicts shame from a person's mind. It values decisions economically instead of emotionally. It has an insatiable appetite, to rip conscience away from any person's heart, leaving only a mechanical heart, which runs only on insipid fuel, the fuel of recognition, only to gain more of that. "Reality" banishes curiosity. It douses the flames of wonder in a person's heart, so he no longer longs for understanding anymore, but only for the fuel that can be reaped from the knowledge, to drive his mechanical heart. And some even puts his effort into extracting fuel from literature, from the sincere works of the ancients. What a tragedy.
I reiterate how I am not exempted from the traits described above. In fact, there is no way to escape "reality". Everyone is part of it, and it continues to intoxicate people to follow itself. It spreads like a plague, from generation to generation, from parent to child, from ages to ages. How insignificant it is, indeed, for me to criticize "reality", and how insignificant it is for you, the reader, to try to escape from "reality". It is fixed. It is scheduled. Humanity has programed its own death.
Sometimes it is not the talent that is celebrated. Maybe it is simply the wits and endurance of the shame that is brought to them when put into a high position. Yes. It is shame which prevents most from following their ambitions. After all, if any shame is present in a person, it would bar him from performing the pretentious tricks which allows him to be celebrated without talent. Any reasonably intelligent person would immediately realize how worthless actual intelligence is, and decide to pursue a path to fame without intelligence: Somehow the only path nowadays to even some recognition. We receive information at such a rate that it is impossible to discern from right or wrong. As with how the disused organ is removed via evolution, the ability to distinguish information has been reduced to a trickle.
I cannot exempt myself from those who struggle for fame. In a sense, everyone is doing so. Do you really think anyone would study for no rewards whatsoever? To study and get a decent job is also a form of recognition: A recognition of your efforts and your value in the society. Yet does recognition mean anything? Maybe it resembles "reality", but definitely lacks representation of reality.
That brings us to reality. Is reality valued anymore? Well, evidently it is to some extent: Science has developed throughout the ages. But does science bring us to reality? In fact, it brings us away from reality. It simply provides more ways we can acquaint to "reality": Phones, computers, air conditioners all are products of science, yet they simply diverts us away from the pursuit of reality. Is science destroying itself?
But is "reality" really the only way out? Even the definition of reality is ambiguous, hence the quotation marks. Sometimes, although science discerns reality, it cannot be said that it is "realistic", at least to the macroscopic pragmatic observer. The fact that a uniform shell of charge appears to behave like a point charge to an external reference point is reality, but is not "realistic", at least to those who do not find a use for electromagnetism in their lives.
"Reality" is destructive indeed. "Reality" evicts shame from a person's mind. It values decisions economically instead of emotionally. It has an insatiable appetite, to rip conscience away from any person's heart, leaving only a mechanical heart, which runs only on insipid fuel, the fuel of recognition, only to gain more of that. "Reality" banishes curiosity. It douses the flames of wonder in a person's heart, so he no longer longs for understanding anymore, but only for the fuel that can be reaped from the knowledge, to drive his mechanical heart. And some even puts his effort into extracting fuel from literature, from the sincere works of the ancients. What a tragedy.
I reiterate how I am not exempted from the traits described above. In fact, there is no way to escape "reality". Everyone is part of it, and it continues to intoxicate people to follow itself. It spreads like a plague, from generation to generation, from parent to child, from ages to ages. How insignificant it is, indeed, for me to criticize "reality", and how insignificant it is for you, the reader, to try to escape from "reality". It is fixed. It is scheduled. Humanity has programed its own death.
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