Reflections upon a Dark Winter Night

Ah, yes. The writer, his keyboard, and a functional screen. In the same room. The writer has made time to write. Right now, the writer is writing, but this is not always the case. He ponders upon his vocabulary before writing, so as to appear erudite. Anyhow, the inclusion of diverse vocabulary in his writing is permissible, so long as such words are used appropriately in context.

The writer does not know what to write about. He suspects that he may have even forgotten how to write. But nonetheless, he sits down before the computer to write, not out of compulsion, but rather due to an inexplicable desire for expression and his association of the act of typing with the return of satisfaction.

The writer has no expectations to live up to, so long as he is writing on this blog, for his own writing pleasure. He pauses to reflect how unfair the world is, in the sense that out of all the individuals in the world, with distinct personality types, affinities, and propensities to various occupations, skills, and talents, not all are rewarded equally.

The avid coder is rewarded with approval from society, envy of some, respect of most, not to mention an admirable paycheck. Meanwhile, he who indulges with equal passion in his wish to become a pianist, struggles to a larger degree. Such symmetry in passions and interests, such stark asymmetry in how they are greeted by society.

But what I really want to do in this speech (for, I believe this is a speech, as I can only imagine myself delivering this, rather than communicating this writing in any other form), is to do what is regarded as respectable in the eyes of authors oft-quoted as remarkable or iconic, (one individual comes to mind, an individual by the name of Salman Rushdie, whose countenance I recollect with an acidic palate, who, in spite of his residency in Britain for the majority of his lifetime, is credited to be an Indian and who, intentionally and boastfully, expresses the simplest of ideas in a manner so diluted and convoluted that they are hardly discernible by the human psyche).

Having thus been exhausted by the illogical (and imo contemptible) construction of his previous paragraph in parody of individuals whose writing style he views as ludicrous, the writer settles to a more direct form of communication of his audience. Yet, despite such simplifications, he does not sacrifice the precision of his ideas, and maintains controlled discourse. He shall now cease referring to himself in the third person.

Control of language is a skill, the importance of which, having once sacrificed in the hopes of attaining mastery of a different language, I have come to realize of late. Having written for the past 25 minutes, I find myself quite exhausted frankly, and respect the accumulated knowledge of those who are able to express their ideas with a high degree of clarity, notwithstanding my abhorrence of those who abuse the English language, and engage in the malpractice of its intricacies and facets. I believe that such writers,  in an attempt to demonstrate their aptitude for writing, forget that they are, after all, writing, and thus lose not only their coherency, but also their interest to the majority of people.

Here are the things I preach. "He must be exceptionally vain to profess to guide others" A remark to which I respond that I have ample faith that there is a sufficiently large audience whom I address that could make meaning out these words. I appeal to that audience. With an average viewership of 5 counts per post, however, I hold doubt in the ability of these words to permeate, through the means of this blog, to such an audience.

Firstly, treat the body you live in as if it is not your own, but God's. What you regard as yourself is truly not entirely yourself, but jointly composed of the essence of yourself (that is your soul) and this holy body you live in. Such a belief commands respect for your body and your individuality, of such a nature that you treat your body and mind as respectfully as a stranger's.

To me, the prospect of living a solitary and meditative life, removed from all people, all elements, seems implausible. And yet, I regard such a live dedicated to introspective rumination, much more complete, gratifying, and blessed, than that of a common researcher or engineer, who manages to lose focus to a much greater extent as he fools himself about his productivity. The meditator cannot afford to lose focus. The epitome of his aim in life is the desire for unrelenting focus, for contemplation, an aim that he knows he cannot achieve fully, but one that he nonetheless strives to achieve. The meditator makes a choice that leads to a life of innumerable challenges: achieving mastery of his own brain by relieving himself of all attachment to this material world. The engineer is content so long as he is given food, work, and the shelter of his own home, but his utter dependence upon his tools renders him inflexible to new surroundings. Meanwhile, the meditator remains so detached from the world around him, that no degree of external force draws him away from his sole desire to meditate; he needs nothing but himself. Put these two individuals floating smack in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, without food and water. The engineer would face a miserable remainder of his life dealing with the shock of being so far removed from his comfort zone. The meditator would be less miserable.

For this reason, I feel that the action of imprisonment, which utterly strips the imprisoned individual of his freedom in all regards, forces him to adopt a self-sustaining mindset and achieve true self-reliance (particularly those who endure solitary confinement. I can hardly imagine a lifetime--I repeat, lifetime--of solitary confinement). The fact that some humans have come to terms with such a lifestyle is a matter I find commendable.