Story of the man with a cigarette

There once was a man with a cigarette

The cigarette is where the man finds his home

The man is where the cigarette finds his home

Polluting the atmosphere for fantasy.


One day, the cigarette was stolen

Enraged, the man took out his machete

And shredded everyone he saw on the street

Why would you not mourn for my loss? the man thought


And it was all natural for him to do that

Who would allow others to rejoice

While he loses his meagre bit of dignity

The cigarette, as it is called.


The company of thieves, named C,

Struck by the violence of the man,

Returned the cigarette (secretly of course)

I don't want to be the next victim! they thought.


And here is the story of the man with a cigarette

The cigarette is where the man finds his home

The man is where the cigarette finds his home

Continuing to pollute, continuing to fantasize.

A_Tragic_Tale.py

Last login: Sun Jul 14 22:44:05 on console
n218103212030:~ nicholaswong$ python3
Python 3.3.2 (v3.3.2:d047928ae3f6, May 13 2013, 13:52:24)
[GCC 4.2.1 (Apple Inc. build 5666) (dot 3)] on darwin
Type "help", "copyright", "credits" or "license" for more information.

>>> A sprint
Voltage: 3.00V
Power: 90%

>>> Absences
Voltage: 2.80V
Power: 70%

>>> Newsletter
Voltage: 2.50V
Power: 50%

>>> An angel
Voltage: 3.50V //I am about to overload!
Power: 100%

>>> Leaving. Why?
Voltage: 2.30V
Power: 30% //FAILING CONDITION! POSSIBLE CAUSE (ERROR CODE): 34ΛY

>>> Distance
Voltage: 2.29V
Power: 25% //FAILING CONDITION! SHUTDOWN IMMINENT.

>>> Insignificant ramble
Voltage: 2.25V
Power: 50% //USING BACKUP POWER SOURCE! (You don't have to do this. Really.)

>>> Horror
Voltage: 2.20V
Power: 50% //IDLE: 2 HOURS

>>> Hope
Voltage: 2.50V
Power: 50% //Are we having power again?







>>> Leavings.
Voltage: 0V
Power: 0%

SYSTEM SHUTDOWN.




You are hopeless.

Nightmare

(A tribute to an enigmatic mind)

I open my eyes
Nightmare (I am used to it)
I close my eyes, just to open them again
Nightmare (I always see it)
A dream was born.

I pick up a book
Nightmare (Haven't we all seen it?)
I put down the book, just to pick it up again
Nightmare (We are ALL used to it)
A dream blossoms

I hold up my pen
Nightmare (We can do this)
I put down the pen, just to hold it up again
Nightmare (I am sure)
A dream manifests

I walked in bliss
Nightmare (Why are you even doubting?)
I sat down, just to walk again
Nightmare (I am optimistic about this)
A dream is kidnapped

I read the paper
Nightmare (Your pessimism!)
I tore the paper in half,
and I stopped reading
Nightmare (You should stop worrying)
A dream is tortured

I stopped walking
Nightmare (Well)
I stopped writing
Nightmare (A miracle is bound to occur)
I stopped being awake
Nightmare (A miracle...)
A dream is crucified

What is the meaning in all this
Nightmare
Why do we even live in this
Nightmare
Because we know it
That there is no such thing as a miracle.

Perhaps death is too horrible for us, so we settle for a
Nightmare
What a cowardly cling onto this
Nightmare
I laugh at your cowardice.

A never ending
Nightmare
A never ending
Nightmare

A Miserable Little Pile of Secrets

Are human sentiments illusions?

Illusions are phenomena that are perceived differently from what actually happened. But the question is: What actually happened? Can we really ascertain the absolute truth of what happens when we perceive? Scientific realism tells us that the occurrence of physical phenomena is independent of our observation (which, if we are to delve into quantum physics, is doubted as the wavefunction collapses (with an unknown mechanism) upon an observation of the system concerned). Whatever is the correctness of scientific realism, we cannot prove what we cannot perceive. What actually happens is still a mystery.

You see, the problem of sentiments is that you cannot perceive it. Only the person himself knows what he is thinking (I don't really do though). We can only deduce what a person is thinking through his actions, or demeanor, or speech or whatever means you can derive. Language is a denotation, but it is not the story.

Can we really prove anything?

There must be some kind of objectivity behind every deduction or judgment. One would normally consider murder an immoral action. You don't need the justification of utilitarianism or egoism or any other moral theories to see that. It is innate in our minds that certain actions must be deemed immoral. Certain actions, hence, represent some kind of sentiments. Actions, a kind of language, is a means of communicating what you think to others. But of course, miscommunications occur, and that will be the downfall of the denotation system.

We cannot prove anything.

What a depressing statement. Even the most logical of all systems, mathematics, fails to prove its own completeness (Godel). Are we then, only living in an illusion? We cannot ascertain anything absolutely. Even the question of where you really are proves to be the toughest to answer. Are you in the universe? But there maybe a clone of you with exactly the same emotions, living identical lives, having identical thoughts, outside "somewhere" in the universe. Even the thought that you are on the earth, now, is being challenged by quantum mechanics. There is a probability of you being in a distant galaxy, instead of sitting on a chair, listening to this pathetic excuse of rambling.

Why do we carry on living, then, knowing that this is all an illusion? Soon the illusion will end, and we shall face the truth of death. We all perform actions because we know that death is not impending. We still have a long time to live (probably tens, or even hundreds of years, considering the advancement of technology nowadays), and we consider our actions to be short term, and the long term consequence of death seems to be negligible, with such an intangibly far distance from us.

But we will all die.

Why do we preserve our lives, holding onto them like a "dog fawning over a bone"? Death is undesirable, painful, morbid, judging. But inevitable. We must all succumb to this fateful ending. Perhaps we all try to fight against it, trying to deceive it, delay it. But there is no way we can live forever.

And our sentiments, what we carry forward throughout the years, will remain unknown. Our brain cells which once stores the memory of or sentiments will decay into worthless carbon. Emotionless, apathetic.

I Wanna Be the Guy (IWBTG), a ridiculously masochistic game that joins together much of the gaming experiences of the late 20th century console games (in a twisted way), features the following scene from Castlevania (NES):

"Kid: Die monster! You don't belong in this world!

Dracula: It was not by my hand that I was once again given flesh. I was called here by humans who wish to pay me tribute

Kid: Tribute? You steal men's souls! and make them your slaves!

Dracula: Perhaps the same could be said of all religions.

Kid: Your words are as empty as your soul! Mankind ill needs a saviour such as you!

Dracula: What is a man!? A miserable little pile of secrets!"

(One of the reasons why I love classical games)

Perhaps we are really a miserable pile of secrets. So miserable, that we cling on to it so hard. The harder we grasp, the harder we lose, and that is when the secrets will be lost forever, into entropy.

-HCN, 10/6/13

Entropy (with a madman)

Entropy: A measure of disorder. A universally increasing quantity. A fateful quantity, that destroys the dream of a perpetual machine, that dissipates focused energy, that breaks unity into disunity, that dictates the outcome of life, of the world, of the Universe. No engine can defy it. No process can hold it back. No man can stop this arrow of time.

Of time itself.

Sometimes I just wonder how this is made possible. Even the thought of an ever increasing quantity sounds like a daunting illusion. Our body becomes more and more disordered, until our organs malfunction, our systems fail, and we, by fate, are condemned to rot in the soil for an eternity.

The maximization of entropy is inevitable. Any other outcome is infinitesimally improbable compared to the destruction of order. The most ordered, is in fact the disordered: It is the only state we can barely hope (hope, huh? Hope?) to achieve. It is morbid, but it is true. We shall see it.

1. Life and death
Life is ordered. The ordering of living society, the social norms we must abide by. There is no society for the dead. They just rot under their tombstones. Forever.

2. Emotions
Emotions are ordered. Perhaps that is why all I see are emotionless, absolute zero faces everywhere on the street. Entropy has already triumphed.

3. Unison
I give up my expectations to whoever still believes a unison exists. It does not. Entropy has washed it away, like a flood breaking a dam, built with the blood and tears of engineers. All gone.

4. Fate
Chaotic fate. Fate pertains to entropy. Fate dictates what your next action will be, what your brain decides to send forth within your nerves, to your limbs, to your hands. Cry all I like, nothing is going to change because of your petty drops of saline liquid.

5. Games
When games become murderers. This is when entropy wins. This is when I die...

6. War and violence
War exists in history. War exists now. War creates entropy. But entropy catalyzes war. Who knows when we will be struck with violence. Painful or painless, entropy creeps in, and it is the end as we know it.

7. Numbers
One, two, three, four... up to infinity. Numbers seem to be under our control, but we, in fact, are dominated by numbers themselves. We are puppets under these manmade symbols representing nothing. Nothing, but measures of entropy.

8. The mouse
The mouse you see on the street. He needs your help. He is stained with his own blood, from his fight with none other than entropy. He thought there was a meaning. Huh.

9. The Internet
I always imagined when the Internet focused its power, what would happen. Would the Internet take over everyone? Perhaps the Internet would spring up as a new nation on this chaotic planet of ours. If only though.

10. The madman's house
Grey, colourless sort of green, white, the trembling, the cracks, the water stained floor, the humiliation, Capitalism, the transient feeling, of what you call joy. Contrast, it is. Dramatic irony.


∞: Grey-coated angel
You are grey in the exterior. Azure shirt under the grey, red under the azure. Burning red. Searing red. Envious red. Unforgiving red. You are the epitaph of love, of entropy. I betrayed. I don't deserve to exist. I haven't anyway, I haven't anyway.




I am afraid the rest of this "list" is too radical for you, the reader, to read. In fact, what entails is the most mortifying statement of the Second Law of Thermodynamics to ever exist. I fear that you are too weak to bear this fact. Please, please refrain from asking further.

"Press the launch button. Escape now, away from this planet. We still have hope on other planets!"

Fools.

Confession of pretense

"One shudders to imagine what inhuman thoughts lie behind that mask..."

Would you spare some time, for a round of confession? A confession from a beggar, a rich one.

What, you ask. How can a beggar be rich? Why is it so? Do resist your temptation to ask these idiotic questions, as they are of no help to anyone. Not even you.

This beggar is poor, poor in eloquence. This beggar is hurt, hurt in personality. This beggar is deprived, deprived of his "consciousness". This beggar is torn, torn from his companions. This beggar has nothing, nothing but material, worthless money. And the most important of all: This beggar is begging, begging for your time to hear his confession.

Is this world deterministic? Well, many may believe that the world is in fact controlled by our free-will: that we can mold our future with our hands. "I am afraid that is a bit too optimistic to be true", he says (Or at least he THINKS). As a person who lost his "consciousness", he is definitely not going to "determine" his future, or even his present. His mind is so deeply drawn into immaterial, non-existent concepts (why are they important anyway? I say, stop asking these paltry questions. They mean little, if not nothing), that he cannot even focus on any worldly affairs. He has a tendency to drop petty matters out of his mind. The trouble is: What seems petty to him, is definitely not petty to his "superiors". (I am being too explicit here, and I shall refrain from describing any further.)

You see, only a fool would concentrate himself on useless symbols that means little. Wait, are we in the concrete world, where everything must be organized and clear? I implore you to remove your assumption that we are currently situated in that "concrete" world. No man ever lived in the "concrete" world. They only lead an existence. A dead existence.

There is no second chance in the "concrete" world. It is tainted with the sickly green gooey substance that entraps all emotions. It kills all imagination by suffocating it. It tortures minds by extorting it with "death" (I don't understand how a dead person can "die"). Hostility is green.

He confesses that he is in the "concrete" world. He wants to escape. He wants to live again. But how can I grant his wish? Nobody would listen to this fine gentleman. And I, alone, seemingly apathetic (emotions exist not in the "concrete" world. It is natural that you don't see mine), actually empathize this gentleman. But how insignificant I am! How powerless I am, to the overwhelming of the "dead". I am drowned, just like he is about to be, in this sickly green goo. Who attempts to escape, drowns.

But who would listen anyway? Even a confession is regarded as pretense in this "concrete" world.

I like that gentleman, a rich beggar, a poor beggar, a sick beggar, a mindless beggar, an absent-minded beggar, a quaint beggar, an idiosyncratic beggar, an alive beggar. He is all of them in one.

He lives. Do you?

"...What dreams of chronic and sustained cruelty!"

The death of cardboard

What if you wake up to a world, not populated by humans, but by cardboard models of humans?

The buildings you see, are but pitifully weak cardboard, collapsing in a single push. The humans: they do not move at all. They are no longer alive. They are just boards. Cardboard.

This could have been a dream. Except that... It is not.

Aren't we all cardboard? There is no denying to that. Human emotions are thin, just like cardboard. Human actions are insignificant, just like cardboard. Human existence is thin, just like cardboard.

But why do we see ourselves not as cardboard? We are, by the above traits, so much like cardboard, thin dessicated unwanted cardboard. Well.

I don't know.

The best explanation I could come up with is that we have evolved. Not that it gives any justifications to us for not being cardboard. We became "advanced" cardboard.

I suppose, however, "advanced" is a poor choice of an adjective. You see, this word carries a hint of amelioration, a mitigation of a problem. However, it is not the case. However "advanced" we are still cardboard: refusing to move in its stubborn array of wrinkled paperwork. We may have intelligent technology, proliferating populations, beguiling arts, vast economies, but we are still cardboard.

Cardboard form boxes. However, each side of the box cannot care less about the other sides. While the other sides are cut and scorched, as long as the one side is intact, they just dispose of the broken sides. No exceptions.

There once was a time when I believed that humans are not actually cardboard. I believed there was a kind of very intrinsic property that humans have but cardboard does not. It is called compassion. Some like to call it sympathy, some, feelings, and some emotions. But as I observed clearly, what I saw was an illusion. Just like cardboard models, if you look from a distance, it is perfect, impeccable. But just close up and see, and you will find inhuman pixels, boxes, glitches everywhere. No one wants theirs to be seen, but they exist. They are there just to prove that humans are cardboard. And when you push them slightly, they fall apart, revealing their bare bleak backside. Shocking, disgraceful.

Of course, the eventual fate of cardboard would be death. Cardboard thinks his tubes of paperwork is tough. But nothing is tougher than nature. Everything, big or small, conforming or recalcitrant, have to fall back on the hands of nature itself. Carbon atoms in the cellulose framework will break up, and the atoms themselves will perish eventually with the death of the planet, the sun, the solar system, the galaxy, the universe itself.

And, us being cardboard, will suffer the same fate too. No technology will save us. No scolding will wake us. No altercation will disturb us. No pride will boost us.

Pieces of cardboard, pieces of resistant unyielding cardboard, pieces of disgustingly decorated cardboard. All gone.

All asleep.