I see a miserable man and shake my head at the irony of the universe. He is penniless, has no education, and is constantly plagued by poor health. At the same time, he has in his possession the one thing I crave more than life itself.
He looks at me and feels similarly disgusted. I am well educated, financially secure, and enjoy amazing health. Though I am miserably alone and indifferent to world, I don't believe he notices. I don't know that he would even care.
And despite the fact we each hold valuable commodities, we understand that the road to misery lay ahead. What a cruel joke fate plays with us. Or perhaps the joke is that we allow it to.
9/25/10
9/24/10
Toxicology
"Alle Dinge sind Gift und nichts ist ohne Gift; allein die Dosis macht, dass ein Ding kein Gift ist."
"All things are poison and nothing is without poison; only the dose makes a thing not a poison."
-Paracelsus, father of toxicology
Hope is no different. In moderation hope it is a powerful panacea against the constant volleys of life's troubles. Hope can fight back tears. It can invigorate the heart with unjust fervor. In some situations, hope is capable of even pulling us back from the fingertips of death itself. A life without hope would almost certainly lead to an abrupt demise, perhaps at the hands of none-other than one's self.
Hope is also a poison. As Paracelsus realized long ago, too much of something is always toxic. The human body is little more than an elegant balance of biochemical reactions, each only a quantifiable distance from disastrous extremes. And even though hope itself is not widely recognized as a biological function (I would argue that it is), in reality it operates no differently. To gorge oneself on hope would be to live to upon the edge of a razor; sway too far in any direction and all is lost.
Acutely, hope leads to rash decisions. One might purchase a life's savings worth of lottery tickets on the merits of hope. Equally disastrous would be to forgo the most sensible of fleeting opportunities in search of a miracle. More often than not, however, hope is instead prone to display chronic symptoms. It incubates and breeds into the slow decay of one's self. One could perhaps describe hope on the mathematical terms of a function regressing to zero, slowly sapping life with every second that passes. As every day of life hangs and falls to back to the Earth, one draws closer to an empty and desolate future. As horrifying as the impatient dehydration of cholera or the insidious grip HIV, hope is a slow-rot of one's existence before his or her own eyes. For some the disease may pass, leaving the broken fragments of what once was a human being. For others, it will consume us whole.
I have consumed hope... we all have. But I consume it as rapidly and desperately as the air I breath. Now I find myself standing on the razor's edge, circling closer and to addiction with every day. The acute stages have come and gone, and every sunrise reminds of their scars. Opportunities lost, time gambled, emotions ablated. But there is still time left. Wounds may still heal. I can still hope.
"All things are poison and nothing is without poison; only the dose makes a thing not a poison."
-Paracelsus, father of toxicology
Hope is no different. In moderation hope it is a powerful panacea against the constant volleys of life's troubles. Hope can fight back tears. It can invigorate the heart with unjust fervor. In some situations, hope is capable of even pulling us back from the fingertips of death itself. A life without hope would almost certainly lead to an abrupt demise, perhaps at the hands of none-other than one's self.
Hope is also a poison. As Paracelsus realized long ago, too much of something is always toxic. The human body is little more than an elegant balance of biochemical reactions, each only a quantifiable distance from disastrous extremes. And even though hope itself is not widely recognized as a biological function (I would argue that it is), in reality it operates no differently. To gorge oneself on hope would be to live to upon the edge of a razor; sway too far in any direction and all is lost.
Acutely, hope leads to rash decisions. One might purchase a life's savings worth of lottery tickets on the merits of hope. Equally disastrous would be to forgo the most sensible of fleeting opportunities in search of a miracle. More often than not, however, hope is instead prone to display chronic symptoms. It incubates and breeds into the slow decay of one's self. One could perhaps describe hope on the mathematical terms of a function regressing to zero, slowly sapping life with every second that passes. As every day of life hangs and falls to back to the Earth, one draws closer to an empty and desolate future. As horrifying as the impatient dehydration of cholera or the insidious grip HIV, hope is a slow-rot of one's existence before his or her own eyes. For some the disease may pass, leaving the broken fragments of what once was a human being. For others, it will consume us whole.
I have consumed hope... we all have. But I consume it as rapidly and desperately as the air I breath. Now I find myself standing on the razor's edge, circling closer and to addiction with every day. The acute stages have come and gone, and every sunrise reminds of their scars. Opportunities lost, time gambled, emotions ablated. But there is still time left. Wounds may still heal. I can still hope.
Broken Constellation
I feel as if I spend my entire life waiting for stars to align, and then every time they do I am the one who is out of position.
9/22/10
9/18/10
The Biological Machine, I
In most popular religious beliefs there generally exists a basic understanding that the "life force" of the human being can be defined as some non-material. Something ethereal. Some invisible being that guides an empty body into the dusk of time. By this understanding we are simply vessels relegated to infect our bodies until a time when we are released. Upon this release, we potentially progress into various afterlife, depending on which flavor of religion you choose to indulge in. But what is this being that holds no mass? What is its motive? How does it coexist with the corporeal world?
I of course speak of the soul. It has many terms but this is by far the most commonly used and widely accepted. It spans the lengths of the clockwork world, allowing each cog to believe that they are not metal wheels but the incarnations of time itself. But how can we justify this idea? How can we substantiate such claims? Is it even possible? The soul is a simple subject with complicated ramifications. First, however, we will examine the purpose of the soul; the soul is simply a coping mechanism of man. We look at the idea of the soul as a vessel to guide us from the end of one chapter to the beginning of the next. We can die on Earth, but essentially cheat death and ascend to heaven as a soul; a body is perishable while the soul is immortal. And this is not surprising, as many if not most religious ideas revolve around the reassurance that something other than an empty void awaits us in the unknown.
But, returning to our question, are these claims justified? Not at all. The life force of humans, as we know, is not some otherworldly component, but rather a concoction of biological events all operating in a self-sustaining display. I live because my cells break down glucose (and other metabolites) with oxygen to create the energy to acquire more of said nutrients. To ignore these metabolic fuels would be to starve or suffocate, effectively ending life. No soul is needed. No operator behind the machine guides my body save for the complex system of neurons in my brain. They are the epicenter of higher thought, and essentially the closest science can come to identifying a soul. But they are still the product of evolution and biology, and likewise need no spiritual explanation. Biology stands on its own foundations without faltering.
posted 9/18/10, written 5/13/10
I of course speak of the soul. It has many terms but this is by far the most commonly used and widely accepted. It spans the lengths of the clockwork world, allowing each cog to believe that they are not metal wheels but the incarnations of time itself. But how can we justify this idea? How can we substantiate such claims? Is it even possible? The soul is a simple subject with complicated ramifications. First, however, we will examine the purpose of the soul; the soul is simply a coping mechanism of man. We look at the idea of the soul as a vessel to guide us from the end of one chapter to the beginning of the next. We can die on Earth, but essentially cheat death and ascend to heaven as a soul; a body is perishable while the soul is immortal. And this is not surprising, as many if not most religious ideas revolve around the reassurance that something other than an empty void awaits us in the unknown.
But, returning to our question, are these claims justified? Not at all. The life force of humans, as we know, is not some otherworldly component, but rather a concoction of biological events all operating in a self-sustaining display. I live because my cells break down glucose (and other metabolites) with oxygen to create the energy to acquire more of said nutrients. To ignore these metabolic fuels would be to starve or suffocate, effectively ending life. No soul is needed. No operator behind the machine guides my body save for the complex system of neurons in my brain. They are the epicenter of higher thought, and essentially the closest science can come to identifying a soul. But they are still the product of evolution and biology, and likewise need no spiritual explanation. Biology stands on its own foundations without faltering.
posted 9/18/10, written 5/13/10
Dreams I
"It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream."
-Edgar Allan Poe, via someone I stole it from.
I place "I" in the title of this entry because I know it will be a subject I return to. Of all the odds and ends in this world, dreams are an interest to which I always find myself revisiting in some new light. At times this is brought on by emotions from throughout my day, and at others stimulated directly by my own dreams. Either way, I feel like I only ever make a ounce of progress at a time. Hopefully putting some words on paper will take me somewhere.
Speaking from the mouth of a neurologist, dreams are the rationalizations the mind invents when neurological synapses spontaneously reset during a sleep period. Disconnected from the body, the mind pieces these random bits of memory together and interacts with them as if they were real. An analogy would be a painter who cleans his brushes off by wiping them on a canvas, and then attempts to make sense of the final product. At the same time, however, the events and thoughts of your day are processed and reinforced via a system known as "the Papez circuit". Thus, as I recall it from my neurology courses, dreams are a push and pull between these rogue neural impulses and the information still fresh in your circuit of Papez. This explains a bit, as we often find dreams to be a confusing mixture of our daily lives with random thoughts we cannot explain.
Psychologists, to my understanding, seem to cling to other explanations of dreams. Many believe the dream state is a virtual playground for the repressed memories of one's conscience. I find this a little less convincing, as most dreams seem to not only be things one would not repress, but also things that one desires openly. Imagine you dream of cupcakes falling from the sky while you rollerskate on a lake. Does that mean you're a cupcake-phobe who won't skate near water? These situations tend to convince me to remove faith in the explanations of psychiatrists, whom I've already learned to be undeniably the strangest people you will ever meet. Or at least the ones who teach it.
Other explanations exist as well, but the majority are simple extensions of religion or mythical ideas that I do not accept.
I'm not ready to continue from here, so I'll leave this entry as the stepping stone to others. Perhaps in a future entry I will look upon this these explanations as way I understood dreams, and not how I understand them.
-Edgar Allan Poe, via someone I stole it from.
I place "I" in the title of this entry because I know it will be a subject I return to. Of all the odds and ends in this world, dreams are an interest to which I always find myself revisiting in some new light. At times this is brought on by emotions from throughout my day, and at others stimulated directly by my own dreams. Either way, I feel like I only ever make a ounce of progress at a time. Hopefully putting some words on paper will take me somewhere.
Speaking from the mouth of a neurologist, dreams are the rationalizations the mind invents when neurological synapses spontaneously reset during a sleep period. Disconnected from the body, the mind pieces these random bits of memory together and interacts with them as if they were real. An analogy would be a painter who cleans his brushes off by wiping them on a canvas, and then attempts to make sense of the final product. At the same time, however, the events and thoughts of your day are processed and reinforced via a system known as "the Papez circuit". Thus, as I recall it from my neurology courses, dreams are a push and pull between these rogue neural impulses and the information still fresh in your circuit of Papez. This explains a bit, as we often find dreams to be a confusing mixture of our daily lives with random thoughts we cannot explain.
Psychologists, to my understanding, seem to cling to other explanations of dreams. Many believe the dream state is a virtual playground for the repressed memories of one's conscience. I find this a little less convincing, as most dreams seem to not only be things one would not repress, but also things that one desires openly. Imagine you dream of cupcakes falling from the sky while you rollerskate on a lake. Does that mean you're a cupcake-phobe who won't skate near water? These situations tend to convince me to remove faith in the explanations of psychiatrists, whom I've already learned to be undeniably the strangest people you will ever meet. Or at least the ones who teach it.
Other explanations exist as well, but the majority are simple extensions of religion or mythical ideas that I do not accept.
I'm not ready to continue from here, so I'll leave this entry as the stepping stone to others. Perhaps in a future entry I will look upon this these explanations as way I understood dreams, and not how I understand them.
9/11/10
Eye of the Beholder
"So one last touch and then you'll go,
And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more.
But it was vile, and it was cheap,
and you are beautiful, but you don't mean a thing to me.
Yeah you are beautiful, but you don't mean a thing to me."
-DCFC
And we'll pretend that it meant something so much more.
But it was vile, and it was cheap,
and you are beautiful, but you don't mean a thing to me.
Yeah you are beautiful, but you don't mean a thing to me."
-DCFC
9/8/10
Unrest
"To be or not to be– that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep
No more"
-Shakespeare
Yesterday's thoughts seemed so well intentioned. They were so simple, trite, and elegant in their assertions. But I could not sleep with a clear conscience despite my best attempts to embrace them. It's hard to tell what I believe anymore. I feel as if I've been avoiding poisoned apples for so long that I've cornered myself into starvation. Why not take a bite? The outcome cannot change.
My heart burns for things I know to be fickle against the great stage of time. Love is a poison I would drink gladly, savoring each drop until my candle grow silent. And all the while my mind recoils the slack in its reins, reminding me of things I would rather not know. This is the battle that rages inside the soul I do not believe in. This is the unrest that siphons away my sleep.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep
No more"
-Shakespeare
Yesterday's thoughts seemed so well intentioned. They were so simple, trite, and elegant in their assertions. But I could not sleep with a clear conscience despite my best attempts to embrace them. It's hard to tell what I believe anymore. I feel as if I've been avoiding poisoned apples for so long that I've cornered myself into starvation. Why not take a bite? The outcome cannot change.
My heart burns for things I know to be fickle against the great stage of time. Love is a poison I would drink gladly, savoring each drop until my candle grow silent. And all the while my mind recoils the slack in its reins, reminding me of things I would rather not know. This is the battle that rages inside the soul I do not believe in. This is the unrest that siphons away my sleep.
9/6/10
Zombie
A door closes and I wonder if I am really alive. A hundred wise old men tell me that to breath is to live, but our definitions of life seem as different as a voice and its song. I question if I have ever inhaled the world. I question if I have ever seen the diamond in the dark.
Although I do not anticipate that wishes will bear fruit of the sweetest nature, I found solace in knowing that the seeds of hope are planted in soil too deep to unearth. It is in these fleeting products of the imagination that I place the greatest wager, as to gamble on any other stake would seem far too insignificant. But should I triumph against the odds, should I defy the motion of the world at large, would the winnings afford me any more than an illusion of happiness?
As a child I fantasized of life's great secret. But as all children are prone, I too was guilty of seeing the world through such wonderfully ignorant eyes. "To love is to live!" I coined unwaveringly, basking in the sweet elegance of the phrase. For many years I adamantly followed this mantra, and for many years I was led as straight and true as the most honest of broken compasses. To love, however, I now understand is not to live. Though many who wonder the streets of love still cling to such a wayward guide, I long ago left that path. Love is not the soul. Love is not the morning kiss, nor the melting heart; love is not life congratulating itself on a job well done. I wish with all my heart it was. Instead, science has shown love to be no more than the not-so-romantic matrimony of molecule and receptor. It is Biology that spins the silent truth of love, illustrating flaws and tearing down propaganda from behind closed doors. And though my body pleads a most appealing defense, with the utmost pain I refuse its temptation. I cannot gamble on love... for it pays dividends in a currency as beautiful as it is worthless.
So, I instead place my stake on the smallest corner of life's roulette wheel. The odds? Insurmountable. The payout? Untold. The price...? Absolute. Such is the cost of hope's sweet and fleeting embrace. Hope is all I have now. The great wheel of time hurtles forward upon its axis and I stand idle with an empty gaze towards the future.
I breath without breathing.
I see without seeing.
I love without living.
I hope.
I am the zombie.
Although I do not anticipate that wishes will bear fruit of the sweetest nature, I found solace in knowing that the seeds of hope are planted in soil too deep to unearth. It is in these fleeting products of the imagination that I place the greatest wager, as to gamble on any other stake would seem far too insignificant. But should I triumph against the odds, should I defy the motion of the world at large, would the winnings afford me any more than an illusion of happiness?
As a child I fantasized of life's great secret. But as all children are prone, I too was guilty of seeing the world through such wonderfully ignorant eyes. "To love is to live!" I coined unwaveringly, basking in the sweet elegance of the phrase. For many years I adamantly followed this mantra, and for many years I was led as straight and true as the most honest of broken compasses. To love, however, I now understand is not to live. Though many who wonder the streets of love still cling to such a wayward guide, I long ago left that path. Love is not the soul. Love is not the morning kiss, nor the melting heart; love is not life congratulating itself on a job well done. I wish with all my heart it was. Instead, science has shown love to be no more than the not-so-romantic matrimony of molecule and receptor. It is Biology that spins the silent truth of love, illustrating flaws and tearing down propaganda from behind closed doors. And though my body pleads a most appealing defense, with the utmost pain I refuse its temptation. I cannot gamble on love... for it pays dividends in a currency as beautiful as it is worthless.
So, I instead place my stake on the smallest corner of life's roulette wheel. The odds? Insurmountable. The payout? Untold. The price...? Absolute. Such is the cost of hope's sweet and fleeting embrace. Hope is all I have now. The great wheel of time hurtles forward upon its axis and I stand idle with an empty gaze towards the future.
I breath without breathing.
I see without seeing.
I love without living.
I hope.
I am the zombie.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
