When Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov, in his magnum opus[1] Crime and Punishment, related to the readers his “Superman theory”[2] with the conviction that he (Raskolnikov) was amongst the few called to power; in the end it turned out to be an unattainable dream as the novel’s antihero fell headlong first back to earth, reality dawning upon him that he was just another criminal. With this, he (Dostoevsky) was not at all discouraging us nor is he mocking those who do attempt to actualize their ‘superman’ potentialities.

Rather, he intended to inculcate to his readers that the factor of environment is still a force to be reckoned with. If Nietzsche took it upon the ubermensch the responsibility of being able to transgress moral law without any form of hesitation as the rationale goes that this in the long run would benefit humanity, he unfortunately did not give any latitude of variation for inevitable circumstances such as one’s milieu being a possible hindrance to the aforementioned ideology.

This in effect left us with a highfalutin, hermit-like (Zarathustra, anyone?) philosophy which, floating within the confines of its principles, rendered to the awed the mentality of leaving it as it is. However, regardless of the attractiveness of the ever-present mystique in the Nietzschean thought, it is not enough to erode the truth of our ‘everydayness’.

Like what Dostoevsky has been implicitly indicating in his great novels, Martin Heidegger asserts that man’s character needs to be understood a-priori as being ‘grounded’ in the state of Being that he called “Being-in-the-world’. Such is in accord with the notion that the human being, or what Heidegger termed as ‘Dasein’, may exist in either one or two modes: an authentic or inauthentic existence. Now Dasein, being ‘grounded’ as “Being-in-the-world” has to face the reality that not everything is possible for him; his options are limited in one way or another, therefore inviting the element of ‘concern’ wherein Dasein is free to decide his own priorities.

M. Warnock briefly explained what Heidegger meant by this in his 1970 work entitled Existentialism:

Choices are made in the world in which humans exist surrounded by other humans. Human beings are characterised by uniqueness, one from another, and this uniqueness gives rise to a set of possibilities for each individual. All human beings are continually oriented towards their own potential, among which are the possibilities of authentic and inauthentic existence. If, whilst moving forward, the standards and beliefs and prejudices of society are embraced, individuals may fail to differentiate themselves from the masses. This, Heidegger regarded as living ‘inauthentic’ existence. Further, for Heidegger, ‘authentic’ existence can only come into being when individuals arrive at the realization of who they are and grasp the fact that each human being is a distinctive entity. Once human beings realize that they have their own destiny to fulfil, then their concern with the world will no longer be the concern to do as the masses do, but can become an ‘authentic’ concern to fulfil their real potentiality in the world.[3]

I need not elaborate on Heidegger’s description of the self of everyday Dasein, or that which he called the ‘they-self’, but for the benefit of this discourse I shall add that Heidegger never meant for the ‘inauthentic’ state of Dasein to have a negative connotation; instead, this state of alienation from the real self is seen as a prerequisite for Dasein, that upon coming to terms with the fact of this condition of ‘verfallenheit’ he will eventually strive for authenticity.

At the outset this may seem comparable with the Nietzschean distinction between “master-morality” and “slave-morality”; nevertheless the Dasein is not subject to creating values for itself and rather thrives on what it has without the least bit intention of changing the values of the world, it has come to accept the world as it is, realizing that Dasein need not have a review of values but more so re-evaluate what is within, implying that change is something personal and not that which should be proclaimed and forced on everyone even so far as ridiculing or name-calling those who do not take it upon themselves the same values which is supposedly characteristic of the “master-morality.”

In a world where the philosophy of Nietzsche has been ubiquitously cited, ranging from powerful political leaders to the basement-thriving nihilist, it is more often than not that he is misunderstood as is manifest from the arrogance and pompousness usually associated with the concept of the ubermensch. What he took for granted however is the fact that our ideologies may not always match those concretely happening in our surroundings- or in other words, the possibility of an imperfect world in which man has no choice but to exist in.

[1] Opinions vary on this, but regardless, Dostoevsky’s last six novels are often venerated as his finest.

[2] This is fairly similar to Nietzsche’s Ubermensch, given the circumstances that it is this novel which inspired that particular ideology.

[3] Warnock, M. 1970, Existentialism, Oxford University Press, Oxford.

That great epitome of Dark Romanticism Edgar Allan Poe once said the following words: “whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been quite able to determine…”. Excellent quote and yes, I must say that he has every right to be confused. One would have to live under a rock if they haven’t heard all those ‘yo mama is so fat’ jokes floating around these days despite the setting being a world that is supposedly ‘sensitive’ and ‘careful’ not to offend.

Be it on the silver screen, television, radio, comic strips, the internet, any form of media, overweight people are ubiquitously present for the sole purpose of being ridiculed. First of all I would like to make it clear that this post is not intended to come across as a ‘fat acceptance’ propaganda, but as one could surmise from the title, it is about being fat and not offended at these jokes. Again, the media seems very adamant to attach to overweight people a niche which these same people never asked for in the first place: namely, where the laughs are, the fatty is somewhere near.

It is no secret at all that the world favors the skinny to the extent that anorexia is often times glorified as some sort of ‘gorgeous people’s disease’ when in reality a keen comedian if willing, could crack a joke or two regarding the frankly ridiculous notion anorexics have that the more skeletal they look, the sexier they would turn out to be. But no comedian would even dare.
Remember, in order to be ‘funny’, one exclusively has to make fun of fat people.

And it’s not just whether being fat predisposes someone to being the butt of jokes which Edgar Allan Poe has to be confused about, but the scorn and in some cases, hate that the overweight experience at the hands of not only comedians but really, from everyone. Excuse the comparison (I’m not being bitter here at all), but anorexic people aside from being glamorized are showered upon with sympathy and support, whereas the fatty is simply looked down as being ‘a hopeless case’. Sure enough, the suffering of anorexics is not something trivial, but given their shaky relationship (or lack thereof) with food, it is but reasonable to conclude that being overweight or obese and being anorexic are two ends of the same spectrum.

But then again the media begs to differ. In comedy, one merely has to have weight issues in order to be considered ‘funny’; in soap operas, the evil stepmother or importunate in-laws often sport thick physiques; in action films, the head criminal is most likely to have a gargantuan belly with double chins; and in romantic comedies, the fat one is almost always the loser with no girlfriend.

Albeit the stated examples are not always the case, it paints a picture of how the media and therefore the people they are able to influence, view overweight people.

It is needless to point out that it would be wishful thinking for this world to portray overweight females as damsels in distress nor to have fat males as dashing debonaire for the simple reason that it is not natural in the same way that it is not natural for magazines to put anorexic ladies on a pedestal wherein they are viewed as the ideal of what ‘beautiful’ looks like. The natural way of course is to admire healthy bodies and sound minds.

Going back to my point, to be offended at all with the jokes directed at fat people is a form of submission to the status quo. What’s wrong with that mindset ultimately has to do with the fact that the status quo is very much skewed to the advantage of a particular people with a definite ideology that unlike what they say embraces each other’s differences and therefore unites all, in fact aims to divide everyone to produce class warfare.

This is not something one could change overnight given that we are used to it, used to have people make fun of and belittle (note the irony) fat people, but we, including myself, as fat people, could start with not being offended. But we should not do does in a haughty manner as that would defy the purpose; it should be done in a polite way that exudes grace and humility. However, that is not to say that an overweight person should dismiss comments about his or her weight as simply a product of prejudice- no, in fact, it could very well be a wake up call to better health. Furthermore, the most important thing is to do something about the problem of being overweight. Try to maintain a well-balanced diet, exercise at least twenty minutes per day, learn how to be disciplined when it comes to food intake, and do our best not to live a sedentary lifestyle. So the next time someone makes fun of us for our weight, we need not get offended especially if we know within ourselves that we are doing something about it.

I read somewhere that success is the best form of revenge and if shedding a couple of pounds won’t shut the detractors up then I don’t know what will.

What lurks beneath the deep blue?
perhaps sinister and tenebrous
perhaps the Mystery's a slew
for away from it the angels flew
and towards it the afreet cadaverous

The mangled face behind the calm
the gelignite in the pacific
the shore is awash with qualm
as if in Gilead to search for balm
the wanderers are sophomoric

It is where hope is obsolescent
and faith in a state of torpor
where love is not incandescent
where wisdom is an adolescent
where all my dreams are in stupor

The phantasmagoria is inchoate
a glimpse inside the deep blue hell
the misery I inculcate
a law I dare not desecrate
the unspoken only time will tell

We've been to a lot of doctors
(and none of them have a clue)
                                         as
                                    to
                              why
                       the
                heck
did
       I
              suddenly
                           woke
                                     up
one day with a gait problem?

At first they said it was my Lumbar spine
then they claimed it was a Stroke
thereafter it became Multiple Sclerosis
and now it's called Conversion Disorder

1   E   l   e   c   t   r   o   E   n   c   e   p   h   a   l   o   g   r   a   m
1   E   v   o   k   e   d   P   o   t    e   n   t   i   a   l   s
and   4   f   u   c   k   i   n   g   M   R   I   '   s

from   10   D   i   f   f   e   r   e   n   t   D   o   c   t   o   r   s
with   10   D   i   f   f   e   r   e   n   t   I   n   t   e   r   p   r   e   t   a   t   i   o   n   s
and   10   D   i   f   f   e   r   e   n   t   D   o   c   t   o   r   '   s   F   e   e   s

Still nothing
My case is still not resolved
I would love to trample your lovely flowers
just to assure myself that I can still walk normally
To run against the wind on a cool December afternoon
Walking without dragging my foot or lifting it as if in a Goose-step
(which I haven't been able to do for four years now)

So to you Mister and missus Doctor,
tell me again about the time you graduated from U.P. or U.S.T. because,
I forgot to tell you,
M    A    Y    I    U    S    E    Y    O    U    R    D    I    P    L    O    M    A  
T    O    W    I    P    E    M    Y    A    S    S    W    I    T    H    ?

I found these kawaii LTS gifs over at Tumblr. I love Little Twin Stars. They're part of my pastel pink aesthetic.

I had a circle of friends back in high school (11 years ago), there were 9 of us and we used to be really fond of each other. We were what you’d classify as ‘nerds’: there was JS, LL and MO gifted in the arts; we had KG the budding computer programmer; JP the taciturn brainiac who is almost always at the top of the class acing every subject. As regards the stereotype that nerds are socially inept (which often is the case, empirically), surprisingly part of our group were PP and TY in spite the fact that they were fairly popular given their amiable natures; also there was the lively AC, a regular presence at school plays owing to her (I write this sans exaggeration) exceptional talent as a thespian; and finally there was yours truly, the occasional prose writer.

For four school years we shared lunch tables and secrets, during summer vacations we compared dreams and ideas. It was no less than a loving family whose members happened to be around the same age. High school went by smoothly notwithstanding the few misdemeanors that got us smiling sheepishly at our parents whilst clutching in our hands a note from the principal’s office, and by the time we went to our separate universities to pursue different degrees, the symbolic floret of frail adolescent friendship has blossomed into something reminiscent of the legendary amaranth. I for one am grateful to technology for making possible what its lack might impede: communication. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, goes the cliché, belying the yearning within us all to sanctify the past- which attachment to is but an indefatigable part of human nature. I tried my best to be the friend they were used to out of loyalty and perhaps more selfishly, because of the longing for reciprocation. How I failed to spot the red flags of disenchantment I could not fathom: such as those excuses made to evade reunions ranging from “my family has plans for the weekend” to the perplexing “do we really need to?” (this is my best friends I’m writing about), the ignored e-mail messages, how they would immediately go offline once they see my name logged on as though I were a plague to be avoided, and how indifferent they have become in those rare opportunities that we were actually in the same vicinity together.

My reason fully comprehends their unspoken sentiments whereas my will remains adamant to keep the friendship intact. Confusion led to resentment, resentment brought forth grief. Grief directed to the realization that memories no longer hold any possibility of manifestation in real life. The great visionary Aldous Huxley once wrote, “What is important is less the reason for the experience than the experience itself…” however it does not quite reverberate in this particular circumstance wherein the experience is exclusively provided for, and therefore indistinguishable from the reason for the experience- or it could just be wishful thinking on my part. No matter, life, as I could quantify it in a simple sentence, is a continuous branching out; furthermore, a constant broadening of horizons to whither only Providence knows, and whose only guarantee to mankind is the sanctuary of firmly-entrenched roots that serve as an allegory for the soul. We branch out to accommodate change, be it physically, emotionally, psychologically, and whatnot, but in a parallel sphere the soul persists. Unlike the literal root, the soul neither expands nor regresses attributing to privation of mass to begin with. Nevertheless the similarity of the twain subsists in the strength of both to hold fast amidst all kinds of external transformation.

Suffice to say, I had undergone the pain of losing my best friends only to be vindicated in the end by gaining my soul- that bastion of my being, generous irrespective of situation to provide solace. Who better to belong to than thy self? Ruminations of jests and affections are left to the misty adolescent past, best this way in fact, if only as a means to gain more insight into what constitutes one’s nature below the persona. My eyes see the world now with rejuvenated clarity and with childlike fervor look forward to navigating the waters of the yet mysterious future, however tempestuous it might be. Chronos in lissome movements shall unveil my place under the sun.

Thus the legend of the amaranth proved defenseless against that despot, time.

The Case

I used to be a wide-eyed dreamer, and perhaps I still am nowadays. I used to dream of flashing lights, cheering crowds, and explosive concert endings. I wanted to be a Rockstar. I used to think that music encompassed the entirety of my existence, and therefore my destiny. I wanted to be a musical artist. I used to delude myself into thinking thoughts of Rock n’ roll grandeur and it costed me money and time. Precious, precious time. I used to say to myself that music is the way to go, that all else fades in comparison, that again, music is my destiny calling.

The Trial

But then life kicked in. I thought I could hold on to these fantasies but realized I couldn’t. I thought money wasn’t spent uselessly, I thought I wasn’t wasting anybody’s time, especially mine, but lo and behold, I totally was.

The Verdict

The simple fact of the matter is that I’ve moved on. Childish dreams are no more, fantasies are gone, and false hopes long extinct. I do not claim to know more about life than the average young adult does, but I surely know now how it starts. It starts with a bit of cuts and bruises, but we all have the choice to not end in tragedy.

The inevitable lessons brought forth by education and time has given me a new perspective. I’m truly grateful for that. I now no longer see the world in rose-tinted glasses wherein I was a Rockstar and everybody else is my audience. I now see a world that is glamorously covering up all the horrible wounds it has acquired through the ages, caused not only by natural events, but by ill-willed people short of being called Spawns of Satan. I now long for the glorious past, that glorious past that has slipped through our fingers because of wars fought out of greed and envy. I ache not for change, because truly, what has happened before will happen once again, and what will happen, already happened before.

I ache. I ache for the time I wasted, but there is nothing I could do about that now, is there? I ache with satisfaction knowing that I had to waste time in order to appreciate time. It is Providence’s way of teaching us to use time wisely. And I ache to learn just how wisely I could use my time.

Hope

The rhythm of life…I now know I co-manage with God Almighty. The task at hand is not to search my destiny with delusions of grandeur, but to appreciate that fact that I, like everybody else, is but a tiny speck in this universe, although we are not marginalized to such an extent that our dreams should be become unreachable.

I still dream. But I dream with my mind alert to reality, and my eyes open to possibilities. I dream not for the entire world, but for myself. I dream to be a child of God, I dream to fill the world with Poetry, and I dream to learn to be good. Starry-eyed? No. Dreaming and hoping is essential to living just as much as breathing fresh air.

I learn to hope, I live to learn, and I live. Simple.

The difference between writing an academic paper and with jotting down one’s opinion on a blog post does not lie alone in technique. In academic writing, we need to find sources as reference to the claims which we make in the paper, but on the other hand with blogging, the only things needed are a keen interest in the topic and a willingness to assert one’s viewpoint on it.

These two forms of writing can both be educational and entertaining depending on how the writer wishes to present it. At the same time too, both forms take a lot of effort to accomplish.

While there seems to be more similarities than differences in writing for these two mediums, it may be pointed out that there is a single difference between them which is able to separate these two completely and thoroughly.

Let me begin by relating the tale of the spider and the bee.

Once, a curious little boy went out into the woods out of boredom; this little boy was smart for his age and was very, very observant. As he hummed along his way, he stumbled across a row of flowers. These flowers were fresh and colorful so the little boy had a hard time resisting the urge to pick one and sniff its aroma. And so he did.

While he was getting ready to go along his merry way with the flower safely tucked in his breast pocket, a fat little bee came buzzing towards where the flowers lay. The boy, being observant as he was, stopped in his tracks out of curiosity to what the bee may be up to. He saw the bee happily dropping its pollen on the pretty flowers as it sucked on the nectar readily offered. The boy noticed too, that there was another bee behind the first one and just like its predecessor, the second bee performed the symbiotic action characteristic of the relationship between bees and flowers.

The little bees went on their way and so did the boy. Again out of curiousity, the boy followed to whither the bees were headed until they hovered around a beehive. The boy hid behind a tree for his safety, and witnessed with his eyes how the two bees joined the many other bees in building around new territory, a sort of extension to the existing beehive. Our hero could just imagine these little bees also making honey out of the nectar that they’ve taken. Being glad with what he saw, the boy left the scene and continued down his path.

As he was walking deeper into the woods, the boy chanced upon a huge cobweb built on a lush green plant. The boy went closer out of curiosity and there he saw at a corner of the cobweb, a big spider busy weaving more webs with expertise. He noted with awe the intricate details of the cobweb, congratulating in his mind the workmanship of the spider. After staring at the spider making more cobwebs for a little while, the boy decided that it was time for him to continue his way.

Our little hero explored the forest more for quite some time up until he took note that it was already getting quite dark.

Once he got home, he found his mother cooking dinner. He approached her and handed her the still-fresh flower as a form of apology for being late. The mother took the flower but ignored however the sheepish grin of his son. She asked him to go get a broom and clean the cupboard in exchange for her forgiveness.

The little boy did as he was told, and once he opened the cupboard, he was once again met with a lone spider building a small cobweb. In our little boy’s innocent mind, it was wrong for him to destroy what he perceived as something which the spider built with patience. So he called out to his mother to voice out his hesitation at the task he was supposed to do.

The mother meanwhile, had to shake her head at her son’s naïveté; clearly her son misunderstood. She took him to the kitchen and got out a jar of honey to place it on the table. The son, curious with his mother’s actions, paid close attention.

The mother pointed to the jar of honey and enumerated to him all the benefits that one gets from it. The bees, who are responsible for this honey did not accomplish it individually as they had to be first and foremost a team of bees to be able to fulfil this task. The boy nodded, understanding what his mother wished to express— that when bees get together, the product of their teamwork is something as important and beneficial as honey.

The boy’s mother also related to him the manner with which the bees gather their tools to make the honey: the bees, instead of staying in one place, go forth into the vast environment to search for flowers, different kinds of flowers, to get the nectar from, and in exchange, to drop the pollen to.

The boy felt a deeper appreciation for the bees after that, but he was still confused. What significance has this fact have in relation to him not wanting to destroy the spider’s cobweb?

His mother sighed and patted his cheek. The spider’s cobweb, useful in one thing, that is, to capture flies or other insects, is generally a nuisance in that its presence indicates a lack of discipline on the part of the owner to clean his house. She says, if one sees cobwebs in any part of their home, they could and would think that the home is poorly kept. And these nuisance, the mother tells, are the product of the spider. The same spiders who work alone and refuse to share their space with other spiders.

Therefore the point is, the mother wants the son to understand how to distinguish between what’s important and what’s not. To know how to discern the context behind each thing, each event, so as not to be fooled into giving something a recognition which it doesn’t deserve.

The curious boy, now enlightened with the matter, proceeded to do what his mother asked him to perform earlier. And with that, our little tale ends.

The moral of this story goes beyond the things which the boy learned from it. As it is, the difference between writing for an academic paper and for a personal online blog is brought to light. Like the spider, the lone blogger spews out cobwebs by himself, meaning opinions that just add to the many other opinions that clutter the internet. But like the bee, the student or professional who writes academic papers goes out of his way to do research, encountering different books and articles, interviewing experts in order to perfect his references and put out a well-written paper that is backed up by facts rather than by the whims of opinion.

Respectively, a properly-researched paper written by an academe is by way of analogy compared to the honey produced by bees, while the personal opinion of a blogger is comparable to the cobwebs made by the spider— that is, while it may be useful for catching comments which in this case we may refer to as ‘flies’, in the long run it is nothing more than idle talk being spun in almost every corner of the Internet.

What’s in a picture?
     A White Man
           
        Was his hair brown? CuzInAllPicturesItIs

Was he a Jew? Nah
                        CuzTheyBelongToTheirFatherTheDevil

                  Kosher Jesus
                  Hippie Jesus

                        in San Francisco, circa NineteenSixtyEight

White people want their Jesus White.
                 
                  White Jesus

The son of man
       (though not the son of a white man)

              I’d like to walk on water too
     
                          -and turn water into wine
                      (except I prefer Coca Cola)
   
                  Cola Jesus

He died for my sins
-AndWithTheRateI’mGoing I guess He’s DyingEveryday
                                            BUT,
The pastor will burn in hell anyway,

                       that’s what he gets for
                                believing in a long-haired Jesus
                 
                   Jesus saves
                   Jesus shaves

The house was as dilapidated as the soul of its owner. Rust permeates the roof, dirty unkempt windows with finger-stains of urchins who dare venture the territory gave away what the townspeople knew all along: that Mr. Gragasin, seventy-eight years of age, is slowly dying of an unnamed malady.

Inside, walls which were once white now have a rotting yellow hue to them and the sound of the floor creaking was like the knell of a church bell announcing the impending funeral of a man in the throes of death.

A flight of stairs, the room on the farthest left, I enter Mr. Gragasin's room; an emaciated figure turns his head towards me, nodding weekly to acknowledge my presence. His nose was blackened and the rest of his body was covered with wounds from which secrete pus. "I've come to administer the last rites." I said, not without flinching a little at the stench of decay coming from his sores.

He seemed to have noticed my predicament for he jerked his arm a little to reach out for a blanket to cover himself. Then a shaking finger pointed to the little altar above his head. "Those didn't help, what makes you think you can?" He told me with a hint of sarcasm. I was taken aback and didn't have an answer for him. "Let's put it this way, you will be the last man to ever see me alive so let's cut the fat and get down to the meat. You want my story? I'll tell you my story." He said. I grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it closer to the bed to hear what he had to say.

"This town is abandoned. Dead. The fields are barren and the ponds dry. Livelihood is nada. I was a believer like you so I prayed to God that rain may come but it never did. Once, when the heat was so strong, a dry leaf started a fire in my backyard but I didn't put a stop to it, for some reason I was mesmerized. I watched closely until I heard a voice. Thunderous and loud. But I wasn't afraid, in the back of my mind I knew what it was and I had to make the deal." Here Mr. Gragasin stopped to let out a series of coughs. "What was it?" I urged him on. Finally, he spoke again, "It was the Devil himself. He told me that rain would come. I brought this curse upon myself. In exchange for rain, my body would deteriorate until I die and," he trailed on. "And what?" I said, half-shouting. "And the curse would simply live on." Again he started coughing. He covered his face for a while and I leaned closer to him.

There was a humming in my ears and suddenly all was silent. I looked down at his sorry figure. Dead. His face twisted with fear. I licked my lips. As long as there is sin and men falling to sin, I shall subsist. My belly is full. I am Lucifer. And you who read this, beware, for the wages of sin is death. I will come for you, there is no escape.

NOTE: Later that evening, for no apparent reason, Mr. Gragasin's house burned down to ashes. His remains were recovered,  with the witnesses seeing shock plastered on what remained of his face. There were no signs of other individuals within the vicinity.

Today I have nothing to write, but I will write on anyway. Finding the right words is like diving headlong into an unknown ocean and surrendering to the whim of the waves. I have danced in the ocean. Flailing my arms and looking upwards at the blinding light of the sun, I am unsure if I am in need of a saviour or not. The desperation that comes with the knowledge of being abandoned, forgotten in the open waters has left my soul intoxicated and wanting more.

Man lives to suffer, short of being a masochist— perhaps because it is only through suffering that he is able to validate the depth of his existence. It would not be too far-fetched to say that should suffering be annihilated from the daily order of things, Man would end up committing felo-de-se if only for the sheer boredom that would result from it.

All men and women are the same even the most unconventional ones; we are swimming in the same ocean of existence and we’d rather drown than get back safely on the shore where no adventure awaits us.

We do not need a destination to embark on a journey— all is a constant flux and it is in man’s teleological bearing to move. Choosing to stay rooted in one spot would result in an atrophy of the soul and a loss of authenticity as a human being.

Though each of us may have been born tabula rasa, in the long run we will acquire the necessary knowledge we need on how to go about life. The choices we make are what makes us unique. We have not a destiny except for the one we ourselves prepared for us.

The ocean is blue, or is it merely the reflection of the skies? Unsure as we may be, we journey on towards the place we can call our destiny; unafraid of the dangers for we have seen the bigger picture— and loud and clear it tells us that risks are a huge part of a life worth living.

The ocean is vast but the will is iron. Sea monsters may lurk beneath us but that is exactly where they place— beneath us— I believe that man is still different from animals not only in his power to reason but also because man has in him the capacity for resilience.

However there are quite a few things to consider in this journey. The mighty waves are themselves a mystery: either they goad us to reach our goals or serve as a force which pulls us away from our path. The winds too are nebulous with their real intention.

What do you do now, oh traveler?

Do you let the waves dictate your course, helpless against the currents and long given up on the prospect of a destination? Or do you, against the odds, battle with the waters? After all when some say we have no power over nature, it is wise to remind them that man himself is part of nature, which means the balance is not tipped to one side only: we have a chance to conquer nature only if we focus on the untapped strength we have within us.

The waters are too deep and it’s down to the strength of the will. How far can one go? Death is a breathing, living entity and it feeds on our souls. The possibility of facing death is not the place where the weak test the waters, it is where the strong brave the storm. To encounter death face to face, to look it straight in the eye, is probably the most important human purpose. It is the reason why we strive to live at all.

Every single day we face the possibility of death. The clock is ticking and we may not know when we’ll heave our last sigh. Furthermore, it is not at all absurd to say that death breathes down our necks each second of the day. Everybody has got a sword of Damocles on his back and we are all subconsciously aware of it regardless of our efforts to deny such thing.

A man builds a house for his family, is he not aware of his impending death? Surely he is or he shall not be as determined to make his wife’s and children’s lives better knowing fully well that the possibility of death lurks. It is suffice to conclude that he is doing all he can so that should the time come, his family will be left secured with cash or property.

Although in the midst of it all he suffers; let not the carefree laugh deceive anyone, for underneath that is a being nervously anticipating his demise. The suffering, albeit, is bittersweet. The challenge of the waters is welcome to man no matter how unprepared he is.

The shore lures us back with promises of comfort but the brave dare not look back— he is complacent with his nature as a moving entity and if death be the one which await him at the end of his journey, he shall remain calm, rather pleased that he had the courage to set sail or swim in the first place.

Death, to put it simply, defines us.

Death is the impetus which makes us to strive towards our dreams, for if we do not attempt at all to pursue our dreams, the possibility of having an unfulfilled life to take to the grave is all too terrifying.

If death is not a possibility, life itself would be empty and tiresome. Was it not said by wise men that in order to appreciate light, we must know darkness? It is the same with life and death, we would not hold life so dearly if we are not aware that it is something fleeting and may be taken away at the snap of a finger. Man as a teleological being that moves by nature is moved by death: the knowledge that someday all will be over gives us the strength to do what we must in order for us not to end up not having lived at all.

I felt so sentimental yesterday when ate Jane and her kids visited us. I missed her. Her children were adorable and they played with Jellianne. When they left I cried a little bit because I know it would literally be years before I am able to see them again.