Curio

I have visited this landscape many times. It is well known to me that a miasma from despair makes the visible world opaque. Everything seems cynical. I never got used to this drudgery—nobody gets used to poverty or sickness. At times, I yell; at times, I cry. And at times, I do both, hoping that is what may crush the stalemate. Ultimately, what becomes evident being alive is that I must summon the absurd courage to inhale.

“Choosing” is not spontaneous when our brain is hard-wired not to annihilate the self. The brain conjures up tricks and forces to make up all kinds of scenarios—often nonsensical—to avoid the complete destruction of self. An inherent and obscene amount of wizardry is baked into the brain’s structure and functions, so as long as our brain pulses with every heartbeat, we can not be immured from the world. We learn to chat, move, smile, cry, sleep, and do all the so-called “routine” daily activities. But it would be insincere to promise that we would be happy to live and remain so for someone else. It would be false, too, that we would do it solely for exuberance.

Isn’t a day in one moment flooding half the Earth with stunning sunlight, but the next moment dies in the West pouring darkness? There is a whisper of a melody of promise at that moment for those listening and paying attention. A day returns with nothing more than a possibility to amend, restart, for a second chance, and wash away the ills of the bygone period. A blank canvas to create a new portrait of life! Instead, sometimes, many preferred the ownership of the past—a rucksack full of hurdles—too significant. That amorous attachment turns fluid current moments into shrill frictions of labor. An exchange that engulfs the possibility of achieving profound understanding and enlightenment for the heavy, looming weight of inevitable despair. Circumstances change from a desire to improve. Transforming the mind with a skosh sorcery of manipulation. To alter life momentarily— a best of fortunes to persist.