Temporary

If one works under the correct assumption that all things, except perhaps death, are impermanent, then one, generally speaking, seeks to increase the positive, but still impermanent experiences, while decreasing the negative, but also impermanent experiences. Given, however, society's seemingly entire structure as one in which the latter are a large percentage of one's life, to be pursued only to enjoy a tiny sliver of the former, then one has to surmise that, if placed on a scale, life would largely be a series of impermanent negative experiences leading to a conclusion (death) that is so immaterial that it has neither positive or negative reality, thus rendering such questions as; "is suffering a permanent state during the impermanent state of life, and if so, why must we fear death so?" The answer, of course, is never-ending.

Distractions

It is commonly stated that certain activities, namely such things as TV, or video games, are distractions that prevent one from pursuing their true dreams, and that too much time spent with them can prevent a certain commitment towards furthering oneself along a path that one would most aspire to. Given, however, the reality of pursuing dreams ultimately leading to a sort of existential despair and hopelessness - what with the largely futile nature of dreams - one wonders if, perhaps, these distractions are not preventing one from pursuing their dreams, but are merely preventing one from accepting that said dreams are toast. In which case, by living vicariously through said creations, we merely substitute existential despair with existential longing. Neither, of course, is enjoyable.

Do (Not) Meet Your Heroes

If, as is commonly adjudicated, meeting one's heroes primarily results in disappointment, most readily displayed by said heroes' poor personality, politeness, understanding, or lack of all three, one must come to one of two conclusions, either:

A) Most "heroes" are disappointing as people
B) Most everyone is disappointing

The latter suggests a sort of universal misanthropy that the present author strives to avoid, but the former is, insidiously, almost as cynical, as it suggests that we continually propel those to stardom the least deserving of it.

Disappoint

If, as correctly assumed, the natural state of the present author is one in which disappointment is elicited such that acquaintances and family are frequently let down, it stands to reason that, while having no social network or friendships may be damaging, it also prevents a propensity of disappointment that would be demonstrated regularly by such friendships. That is to say, you can only disappoint so many people, when you only know so many people to disappoint.

Time Off

One would think that, given a significantly longer time between posts than usual, the present author would have a particularly significant, creative, and evocative post, what with all the time the present author had to cogitate on one. Alas, such is not the case; indeed, such time away only serves to hasten the existential angst the present author has, by way of displaying an inability to stick to the most basic and unassuming of tasks - writing a short, poorly conceived blog post, with no redeeming value, and little narrative purpose.

Three Skips

She stared westward across the ocean as if she had never seen water or a sunset before. The colours were splayed across the atmosphere as if a higher being had taken cans of red and orange and purple paint, opened them, and merely splashed the paint out across the sky.

A pocket full of small stones resided in the pocket of her jeans. The waves ended their encroachment on the sand mere inches away from where her bare feet stood, granules of the fine particles slowly covering her toes. She took a stone out from her pocket.

Three skips. That was it. She side armed it as best she could but on the third hop across the water, the stone she had thrown crashed head first into a wave and ended its journey across the surface. She took out another stone.

Three skips.

She sighed and her shoulders heaved up and down as if they were lifting invisible weights.

A jet ski went by just beyond the nearest buoy, engine loud, water sprayed upwards out its back, mild up and down jaunting as it coasted across the uneven surface. She thought the wind in her hair would have felt amazing at that speed. Instead she settled for the light breeze that brought the smell of salt and a rapidly decaying late summer September warmth to her nose.

Three skips.

She used to come here with her best friend, Sofia, they'd skip rocks and look for handsome boys and guess their names and joke about saying "hi" only to never do so. Sofia could skip her rocks eight, nine, ten times, they'd hop over the waves and seemingly float never-endingly, as if in a hurry to escape the shore, the town, everything, go across the ocean and land somewhere else, somewhere new, where the grass wasn't necessarily greener but was a different shade of it.

Sofia carried a sadness with her when they were done, and the car ride back home on the rural two-lane highway at dusk would be silent, windows down, sad, somber music blaring out the speakers, a mutual understanding between them that didn't need vocalization. They were getting older. They could feel it in their bones. And while nobody would call them old they knew time was finite and the days of being young and pretty and desirable, as women, were becoming a distant part of their past.

Sofia took it worst. There were things out of her control, family issues, job issues, relationship issues, and the ever-present reality of aging. She began talking less. Smiles became a rarer commodity. Phone calls and texts went unreturned. So three years ago, she decided she had enough, and she never woke up again. Never skipped rocks again. Never joked about handsome boys again. It was over.

Three skips.

Another sigh.

The sun was almost entirely below the horizon at this point. It was too cold this time of year for swimmers, for shirtless guys, for kids laughing and parents smiling and cameras flashing.

She had one rock left. She took it out of her pocket and ran her hand along the smooth surface, the pastel grey colouring echoing a sentiment she often shared when she returned here. It was never quite the same without Sofia. The smiles and laughter and lust they shared now bottled up and tucked away forever into a memory that would slowly but surely become more faint as time marched on. She took one last look at the ocean, then, and closing her eyes, side-armed one last throw into the water. She didn't know how many times it skipped. It didn't matter.

One last sigh, and she returned to her car. She pulled out of the parking lot, and the last sliver of sun, the last reflection of light off the ocean, disappeared in her rear-view mirror behind her, never to return again.

What Does it Mean for the Four?

If, as some futurists, health experts, and transhumanists would have you believe, human aging will indeed be cured much sooner than the average person assumes (if one even assumes such a thing is possible), such cure would represent a direct refutation of the Four Noble Truth's elicitation of constant rebirth until ones breaks the cycle of rebirth. Given that rebirth relies on death, one may be presupposed to toss out the entirety of the Four Noble Truths, given this possible development. Either way, it would appear that such a human achievement would accomplish only the worst realities of the Four Noble Truths - that is, one would live in a state of permanent, never ending "dukkha," or suffering, and the entire cessation of rebirth would be rendered moot.

November 9th

While many would jump to the conclusion that on November 9th, after the US election is over, we can all return to a more normal, less despondent world, such conclusion would be faulty. Indeed, that the election has no bearing on one's insignificance, depression, and reality of suffering, renders any exultations of gratitude wholly superficial. The end route, for all of us, is a casket. The universe cares not, either way.

From Robber to Baron

The early steps are to copy and adjust. You read something as a 14 year old and love it so you do your own take. You offer a twist ending to your own story after reading The Necklace. You offer a rambunctious language excursion after reading My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist. You try your hand at absurdity after reading A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I didn't even realize what I had done when I wrote it, but the title and mood was similar to a piece I loved months or years ago in a Sixfold writing contest. So I scrapped it, back to the ash heap, try to hit the right melancholy chord some other time.

We learn early from aping those who we enjoy and like but at some point the robbery has to turn into something more individualistic, more brand-worthy. "Good artists copy, great artists steal" might work in the libertarian dystopia of silicon valley but the creative industry generally polices its self to the point of parody. Or maybe every story has been told, and told in every single way, but it's impossible for any one person to have seen them all.

Yet it's still a good novel or a good movie or a good short story that gets the creative juices flowing, unless I've managed to smuggle a bit of nicotine into my system; either way the cost is great. Maybe I'm not destined to write my own piece. Maybe nobody ever is.

The Cycle

The present author is under no pretext that the author's current home is the one in wish said author wishes to reside. Given that the present author has demonstrated, at various times, a desire to reside in both a larger metropolitan area, and a warmer one, it has been suggested by both the author and numerous others that a move to the southern US, southwestern US, or a more equatorial country (for a grander change) would be good for the present author's livelihood. Alas, given that moving often requires a large sum of money, and emigrating often requires a 4 year degree, said move is subject to a vicious cycle - that is, the present author can not attain a degree that would allow for the accumulation of more money vis-à-vis a better job, on account of limited funds - nor can the present author get a better job that would allow for greater income, on account of the lack of a degree.

Saying Goodbye for the Last Time

For four hours we talked and laughed and rode a bike around Saigon and drank and even had some spicy frog soup. I was in a country where being white meant it was easy to meet people, to have them curious to talk to me, and I was determined to try to use that to make connections and talk to people, something I can't/won't/don't do at home, where I am just another washed up schmuck cocooned in his bedroom. It's nice to have friends in distant places, people you can communicate with to get fresh perspectives, people who can give you tips and advice and help you out when needed. I suppose that's what she is now, after four hours of talk, although 'friend' is loose and maybe we're more acquaintances. She messages me almost every day now, bringing up constantly me coming back, the things she wants to do with me (visit her hometown, eat lots of food, the usual I suppose) and thanks me profusely for making her laugh so much. We talk about work and life and what we're up to. It's nice.

I suppose, eventually, the talks will die down, the daily messages will become every other day, and then weekly, and then every other week, and so on. The reality is that flying across the Pacific Ocean is expensive. She has her own people she knows and hangs out with who don't require thousands of dollars just to visit. Eventually she'll be just another face on Facebook, another friend who could barely be counted as such, posting pictures of life and food and maybe getting married and having kids.

I was nervous when I first met her. But it was even harder to say goodbye. It was a goodbye knowing that we would probably never see each other again. A goodbye knowing that whatever friendship could have flourished there never will. A goodbye knowing that all these moments will eventually be lost to time, discarded, forgotten in old age. Whatever could have happened never will. Whatever will happen is all the more disappointing.