Under the Skin from North Tehran

I was reading my favorite book. It was a very quite night, beside from me murmuring the some of my words the only voice I could hear were the crickets of the gardens surrounding the house. It was early morning too, late in night but still well before daybreak, when I heard engines of what was probably a weak motor of a small car trying to make it uphill to where I was living. My old, mediocre house in North Tehran was the second building from the end of the alley, and the old school yellow bricks that made it whole, distinguished it from the shiny white and red luxury condo on its left. She parked her small red car right in front of my windows, probably unaware that I was sleepless that night, busying myself with engine sounds that broke the silence of my night. She turned off the engine. There was silence again, but she didn’t exit the vehicle. If the car were yellow I would have thought, there is cabby looking for a location on the map. It was one of the common cars you thousands of in the streets. It was an old model too, and the color had worn off, but you could still distinguish the rare red color the car showed. It was probably one of the few models that had painted bright red back in the days when these cars were mass produced by Iran Khodro. I could not see her face from my second floor window. I could only see her hands moving on something quickly, going up to where was probably her face, and then coming down, and busying themselves once more. It was as if she was putting some make up. But I guessed that she was probably a party girl late for home, very late if you ask me, and was cleaning her make up in case dear daddy would be awake. I got bored and went back to my book. After what seemed like a long time, I heard a car door disturbing the silence of the night! I thought she should have been sure gone by now. I looked out of the window again. She had got off the car and was now turning around the car toward to the passenger seat to check the locks. As she faced me, I could recognize her tired but very pretty face, there was a very red lipstick, and some eye shadows but she did not seem heavily made up. She went to pick something from the back seat. As she went for what seemed like a bag, her veil fell off and leaving me facing her long brown hair with blonde highlights. She had her hair clipssed on the top, and seemed indifferent to put the veil back up again. There was no one in the alley, and there couldn’t be any cops around at this late hours of the night. I felt bad invading her privacy like that, but I couldn’t help wondering why she had not cleared all of her makeup. As she started walking toward the luxury condo at the end of the alley, I busied myself with my book again, but my thoughts had stayed with her. I wished her luck with her parents probably sleeping in their big fancy rooms in the luxury condo. They were probably of the strict type or else she would have had a much better car to party this late at night. There was silence again, except for the period for the early morning prayers where I could hear my favorite broadcast of Azan from the mosque closest to my place: “I swear to the one and only true God, I swear to the one and only true prophet, and I swear to the one and only true Imam.” I snorted at my repeating the words, as the harmony of the voice of my favorite Azan singer still hummed in my ear from the distance. After all, the book I was holding in my hands had been the one who first killed god.

Almost two hours passed, and I had sunk back to my book again. Ever since, she left, the night had gone darker before it goes for the daybreak. My room was getting more light now, and I could hear the birds starting their day. I went back up to the window. There was no sound besides the little sparrows and occasionally the big black crows placing themselves sharply on the trees above the red car. As I was looking, I heard steps, in a faster than usual pace, I waited and it was her again. Her vail was lazily covering her brown her, and the blonde highlights were streaming down from behind the vail on her back. Her lipstick was gone, and her bag-purse thing was half open. She looked even more tired but still She quickly put herself in the small red car, put the purse thingy on the passenger seat, and started the car. The engine didn’t turn on the first time, but when it did, she quickly left my sight towards the main street at the other side of my silent alley…and then, I understood, she was not going home, and she was not cleaning make up. She was putting it on.

favorite quote in context

"Several years have now passed since I first realized how numerous were the false opinions that in my youth I had taken to be true, and thus how doubtful were all those that I had subsequently built upon them. And thus I realized that once in my life I had to raze everything to the ground, if I wanted to establish anything firm and lasting in the sciences. But the task seemed enormous, and I was waiting until I reached a point in my life that was so timely that no more suitable time for undertaking these plans of action would come to pass. For this reason I procrastinated for so long that I would henceforth be at fault, were I to waste the time that remains for carrying out the project by brooding over it. Accordingly, I have today, suitably freed my mind from all cares. Secured for myself a period of leisurely tranquility and am withdrawing into solitude. At last, I will apply myself earnestly and most unreservedly to this general demolition of opinions."

From Meditations on First Philosophy: Book I
by Renè Descartes

"... suitably freed my mind from all cares. Secured for myself a period of leisurely tranquility and am withdrawing into solitude. At last, I will apply myself earnestly and most unreservedly to this general demolition of opinions."

I am no Abraham. I'll keep the child and kill the god.

There is a land far far away, where the sun like an old master painter paints blue skies with white clouds. In this land, man and woman-made structures dissolve in nature, and in their gardens branches of ever-green trees aim for the skies only to make up the extensions of building's curvatures. The land prospers with knowledge and, technology excels as hard-working people benefit technology and technology benefits them. This is a land where every other land is just a faint shadow of. In this land, young boys and girls bike up and down the streets, an parking spots hold newer efficient cars, or shining classic models. The streets are clean, and the population is young, smart and ever thriving. Every body is grown up, and yet still all push themselves towards more and even more sophistication and wisdom. Philo-sophia: of Love of Wisdom truly manifests itself and feverish youthful minds are committed to this manifestation and direct themselves at its direction. Their commitment extends the boundaries of dedication. Their minds swell with fresh ideas about the ideals they are helping create, and all the while structuralize their surroundings, and along with it, structuralize their minds' causal powers. In this far far away land, they tame undesired sharp effects of mental phenomena by whips of logic and bridles and saddles of predetermined rules that dictate the patterns of behavior. Raw feelings are baked with fried bacon and cheese, and different spices are added to it, so that feelings would taste as they should, not as they are. Political centrist is the political correct, and the political rebel is the fun-loving Robin Hood of his ego and the strict Sheriff of her Nothingham surroundings. Every piece of the puzzle fits, because if it doesn't ideas would create one that does. Emotional intelligence is measured, and manipulated to serve the mind and its well being. In the midst of all this, the no-child-left-behind program leaves every child behind, not because it doesn't educate children, but because too early children leave behind their childhood to become grown ups. This land is far far away for he who is a child in the mold of a grown up. Its borders are closed to she who has got rid of her childhood little pleasure-driven hedonist piggy, but still dares laugh heartily like a child would laugh and dares cry carefreely like a child would cry.
This land works on ironically true principles of selfishness that are nevertheless truly true. Every man for himself, every woman for herself, everyone for themselves. But all people abide by determined rules that undermine these very principles; rules whose mere existence is a disgrace to human want, and human desire, and the nevertheless-true-principles. I am telling you this, because I have been in that land, (or at least I thought I was, if the land is a fictional destination) and I have suffered from the contradictions that it suffers. Despite all of its glory, I just couldn't give up my childhood, but if you want to grow up it's the best place you could be at. But for me the choice was clear, I rather live on my own earth, laugh loudly, and cry whenever I feel. I rather ride my horse without a saddle, without whips and bridles. I had a little want-all brat piggy and got rid of it. Now, all I have left is a little feel-all selfish enough 7-year-old embodied in a man. I'll let the man, my man, want all he can, but in that I won't sacrifice the child, even if I have to sacrifice the rule maker.

How should Nietzsche-Kant dialogue let you feel...

my steps have become smaller and my breathe has become shorter. My bodily muscles have deteriorated, and I have exempted myself from all activity. I do not eat, and I do not sleep nor do I take comfort in any comforting thought. I am constantly thinking of this war, and how I rather be with you instead. How I rather be at war with you rather than hypocritical smugglers of hope and life...
I rather be at war with you, where there are no dirty tricks...just the voice of reason, my reason. How I long for you. The more I search for you the more I lose my binds with my surroundings, with the people, and the environment, the more I sink into the depths of my loneliness, and the more I sink the more I know there is more to this abyss. One day I shall touch upon that which is there once again, and this time I won't let it slip away so easily.

Friendly or Grim

Future is friendly or grim? It's all a matter of perspective isn't it, and in the midst of all this, Time is just an illusion anywayz.

And since when there's been a true perspective? Either Grim or friendly that you can fully convince me of? Think harder,

There you go! You know it as well as I do. Your best answer is no answer.

So, I'll just choose the friendly one and watch out for the Grim ones & in that choice my now becomes mine, whether I choose it on my own or the grim-ness causes me to choose it for myself.

For now, I'd just enjoy life....

In at least one way I shall always look forward to my death. Finally, this darkness, this confusion, this anticipation for something so different would come to an end and all of my mind would light up in understanding in its most pure sense, even if it is nothing into which I would fully immerse myself.

Last Chapters: Death is only the Beginning

The doctor told him that he had Exotropia, and by now he was old enough to understand that this couldn't be something good. The doctor told him that his problem was not uncommon:"It's often times seen in early infants, and in children of ages 6 or 7, it also appears in people with Brain tumors, but we don't need to worry about that last one." He did not care how common the problem was. Even if the disease was some kind of tumor it didn't bother him as much as he was bothered by the prospects that he would not perceive the world in the original sense that he used to do.

What was he losing here? What he sees would not be the same, and has not been the same for a while, and he had not been aware... He was curious to know more:"thanks, doctor, but what happens here? I would not be able to see things as before right?" The doctor seemed to have felt the worried curiosity, and said:"It's all a simple physical process. Your brain's ability to see three-dimensional objects depends on proper alignment of your eyes. When both eyes are properly aligned and aimed at the same target, the visual portion of the brain fuses the forms into a single image. When one eye turns outward two different pictures are sent to the brain."

"what about my mind though?" He left this thought in his heart. "there must be way that my thoughts that seem immaterial affect my material body!" As he was weighing these thoughts, thinking how his mind and body can interact. As he was sinking deeper and deeper into his thoughts the doctor turned around walked behind his desk, sat on his squeaking chair and started jotting down some notes on a prescriptions paper. He leaned forward to look what the doctor was writing, when it suddenly hit him. All those images, that he's been preoccupied with as a kid and even later as a young adult, all those duplications of lines of his handwritings, there were are nothing but problem with his vision of the world. All this time, and he had befriended them and had even named them. He had talked to one of them. All this parallel universe that he had thought existed but had learned to forget about, was not even there in the first place. The psychiatry clinic, how can he forget...he had been forced to forget, but was constantly reminded of the world had created for himself. He thought, how easily can his mind play the greatest tricks on himself.

The doctor made an attention demanding noise, that took him away from his thoughts. He suddenly noticed that he'd been quite for a while, not even as small a movement as a nod to the doctor's explanations. The doctor didn't say anything either. He just started mumbling the notes that he had took, while throwing him a glance to see if he is sinking again. Feeling uncomfortable, he looked at the notes on the desk and asked: "so is it serious?"

He knew that the doctor had recognized his anxiety. "I know you might be a little worried, but this is no serious condition. In fact, there is a very easy treatment" said the doctor.
He looked the doctor in the eye and impatiently replied: "I rather wear glasses than contact lenses, at least for now."

The doctor, looked at him and chuckled: "no, no... glasses would make your condition even worse." He could tell his eyes were widening in wonder. The doctor continued: "You see, there are six muscles that control eye movement, four that move it up and down and two that move it side to side. All these muscles must be coordinated and working properly in order for the brain to see a single image. These muscles like every other muscle in your body can get weaker or stronger. Now, your problem is that your muscles that should keep your eye in place, are not only too weak, but they've been so rarely used, that your brain has seem to lost control over them. Just like when you can't straighten up your ring finger, as you straighten up your middle one" He chuckled a little more at his own joke and said: "You are going to train your eye muscles. The instructions are here on this note. I've written for you an exercise, just do this 50 times a day, and after a month you eyes should become better." The doctor then stood up, and so did he. He took the note and said good-bye hurrying himself out of the clinic.

He was feeling better by now, after all, if there was an exercise that could fix him up for good, then he had no reason to be sad about his vision at least in the future. He opened up the doctor's note, but what he saw seemed to be directly written for him. The note read: "sit relaxedly, take pen or pencil and stare at it, bring it closer and closer to your eyes until, it gets duplicated. Then try to bring the second image into the first one. when done, take the pencil closer, and try again, until the object reached the tip of your nose. then start this all over again. Do this 50 to 100 times a day."

All this time, he's been trying to think hard to forcefully forget about all the duplicates that had constructed for himself, and now he had to un-think them all back. He had to unearth his abilities to create duplicates and this time face them and force them into one, instead of just forgetting about them, and so he did. He did the exercise twice a day, hoping to get his vision better, and meanwhile, unavoidably he gained a lot of control over his eye muscles. But before the first problem started to go away, his vision of the world seemed to have developed a new capacity.

After months of daily practice with the pen, and then with other objects, he seemed to have become capable of making duplicates out of anything and then make the disappear again. Laughing at himself, and his earlier memories, he now once again often looked at the mirror and said: "Hi, Fred, Bye Fred." and again and again: "Hi, Fred, Bye Fred."

He seemed to be in total control of what his mind had once posited on him by itself. He felt good, and nothing else was seriously bothering him. When he got to university, he decided to do double major in Computer Science and Philosophy. He liked what he studied, but post-secondary education was a whole lot different than any other sort of learning experience he has had. There was pressure, and there were deadlines. But besides all that, there was a more fundamental difference. University seemed much more like real life. Under the pressure of readings and essays and computer assignments, he noticed that he is always facing a choice, whether to do the best job that he can using his academic skills on his work to get the best mark that he can, or whether to best job that he can using his behavioral and negotiating skills on other's work to get the best mark that he can. There was always a choice for him whether to copy and assignment or do it on himself. But as the deadlines piled up toward the end of every semester, the second option usually ended up to be the more attractive one.

Now, he had been brought up, getting to know his smart older brother, and his mother constantly reminding him of right and wrong. he had grown up in a family where his dad would not stop telling samurai stories on their picnics and his brother would force him to confess his lies to his parents. He thought he had a sense of honor, and he felt at times that what seemed honorable to him contradicted, even hindered his values for social well-being and even academic achievements.

In university life, and later during his employment, he learned to unearth all those habits that he had while growing up, and compromise them, when he needed a better mark, or even better friends to hang out with. Later these skills, tremendously helped him with his job with bigger firms, and even with his philosophy studies. the choices were countless...he could have started his own business, become his own employee, but when he got a good offer from a big firm he changed his mind. His philosophy dissertation was a new work, focusing on mind after death, and how it interacts with the body, but with the suggestion of his supervisor he decided to continue the supervisor's work and instead get his dissertation done a year sooner than expected.

He did not compromise on anything though, he always said to his friends:"Some boundaries I shall never pass, and I don't care what's on the other side." He felt good, he felt good about how he has overwhelming control over his mental state, and the duplicates, and how that control is reflected in his real life. All was well...till that ominous day.

He was taking the subway to work. They had an important financial firm as their client, whom his company could not afford to displease. So, after a laborious weekend of debugging and integration of codes, he had planned to got up earlier than usual on that Monday morning. But he was running late, and he skipped breakfast. He wasn't used to the crowded subway transit of the morning rush. His job environment was relaxed, he often worked from home, and even if he did go to his office, he never left without having a long breakfast well after the rush hour was over. In the subway, he thought he had never seen this many people squeezed this badly together just to get to work, and seemed people were used to this because he could swore some of them were eating their breakfast in the train, or even napping while standing up, holding their hands here and there to avoid bumping into others. He did feel very hungry, he didn't remember having a big dinner last night either, and he did feel sleepy.

"Something is really wrong here. I can't breathe" He thought to himself. The train made a stop and felt his hand loosening the hold, so instead he tried to make his way through people so that he can lean on the doors. The sign on the doors read:"Do not lean on the doors." He'd never seen the sign, after all, when there was no rush hour he had always comfortably sat in the train, sometimes even stretching his legs. He felt weak. As he leaned on the door ignoring the sign, he faced a short lady in business style clothing. She was leaning on the door too, and she hold a muffin in her hand. "I'll do anything to for that muffin right now." he said to himself. He though of stopping at the next station to get something to eat before he collapses. But before he pictured the doughnut shop at the next station completely, he felt his back pushing less and less on the door. His legs went numb, he felt like he was collapsing on the ground. He moved his hands to grab something, anything, but there was none, he weakly whispered "help", as he fell down on his back. The last thing that he saw was the lady in front of him screaming, and the muffin falling off her hand. He then heard the train coming to a screeching halt, but at this point, everything was already dark.

He was still in the dark, and he started to feel pain on his back and on his cheeks. As he tried to open his eyes, he saw two big hands that were already coming at his right cheek, and a large black man's mouth fumbling something like: "Are ... okay?, the ambulance ... way."
"Ouuh." He said as the hands hit him on the cheek. "I am awake don't hit me anymore buddy." The man stopped his hands, but he wasn't listening to him, he was shouting at an Asian lady:"Get back, get back, I am a nurse, a nurse I tell you, and he needs air right now." The Asian lady was shrieking back in a worried voice: "I am a doctor I can help." But the man was persistent. In midst of all this, somebody was holding his hand, some random white guy with a rain coat and a tie, he thought he was the one that had tried to hold him while he was falling. So he squeezed his hand, the nurse was still shouting at people, and the doctor had already backed off to the front of the circle that people made around him. He was already feeling better. He tried to recognize the face of the man in tie, and he did see a blurry face at first. The face became vivid soon, but the blur wasn't what worried him. He was seeing two faces. He opened and close his eyes quickly, and turned to look at the black man. He saw two faces again. Everywhere things were in double. The black man turned to look at him:"okay, follow my finger with your eyes buddy?" As he started to move his fingers in front of his face he said:" I am Jeff by the way, what's your name?" He followed the fingers and said:"I am seeing double." The black man said:"Great, I think your brain is fine, you can move your body muscles and you can follow my finger. Lie here until the ambulance comes."

"I feel fine, I have to get to work right now." He tried to talk back to the black man's to heads. Just give me something sweet and I'll be on my way. "no way man, your pressure is too low."
He felt disappointed, and even worse, he was seeing double, everything now was double, In the midst of all this they had moved the train to the next station, and there were now police officers evacuating people from the train so that the ambulance crew can get in.

He gave up. He didn't care about his blood pressure. The ambulance crew came, he saw four people, with two beds, and four police officers pushing curious people out of the way, as the four people carried him in two beds. He saw two ambulances, and two old ladies starting down at him while he was pushed into the ambulance. In the ambulance he saw two ladies getting his blood pressure from his two right hands. He close his eyes at the sting of the two needles, and he kept them the close.

In the hospital nurses came, and needled him again and again for different experiments. All this time he kept his eyes closed. They took his heart rate with a what he could tell was a big printing machine with scopes coming out of it. Then the doctor came. The man's voice was deep and hurried but confident. He said: "The nurse told me you haven't open your eyes, and you've even refused to open them. and you're not talkative at all." He thought to himself: "easy for you to say."
"We are checking for brain damage, if your vision is blurry or anything else, we have to know. People don't faint for no reason you know." He then started pushing his hands and legs:"try to prevent me moving you arms...Ok, that seems fine, now you legs...ok..." The doctor worked almost every muscle in his body. He then said:"Everything seems all right, now, do you want to tell me what's wrong with your vision."
"I am seeing double." he said impatiently, still keeping his eyes closed. "Double? you mean you have binocular vision?" asked the doctor. "No! I am seeing double" he barked. He then opened his eyes, and pointed close to where the doctor was standing and said "I see you here, and here" while moving his fingers from right to left, where the doctor was actually standing. I see two of you Doc, I see two of this pencil you're holding, two of this nurse beside you. I am seeing duplicates." The doctor said in a surprised question as if he expected no answer:"Duplicates!?". "Doubles, I mean I see doubles every where. and they move and talk and do stuff." The doctor turned around and whispered something to the nurse, she then hurried out of the small room that he was in. "What did you tell her?" He tried not to yell.

The doctor ignored his question, looked at his notes and said: "There are many reasons one can faint, most of them are not serious, but some of them are, and if they are they tend to be very serious, cuz your brain doesn't lose hold of your body for no normal reason. If you are fed and the condition continues like in your case, we usually check for brain tumors. Now, I am going to ask you a question and you have to be honest. Have you ever had this problem before? this vision problem."

He thought for while: Have I EVER had this problem?! Oh I don't know. did I!?" He gave a smear out, and said: "Yes." There was a knock on the door, and the nurse came in, and he saw four other men following her into the room. The men divided to two pairs and stood by each side of his bed. He thought the doctor had become worried. He probably had become he had gone nuts from the brain damage, and might become agile, what else could these bulky guys be here for. The doctor nodded to the nurse and said to him:" Ok, you seem fine beside your double vision, so we're going to put you in another room, until someone comes to pick you up, and then you have to rest. We are going to scan your brain for tumors today, and until the results come up you have to rest."

He felt that he has to be there for a while. He closed his eyes again, and remembered how, Fred, his imaginary duplicated friend, had always disappeared when he had lost focus on him. "Are the duplicates losing focus when he had his eyes close?" He thought to himself. It was a long day, and the fact that he couldn't read any book or watch any TV, made it even longer. The experiments were long and boring, they put him in a bed like tube, that slided in to a machine that he could tell was CT-Scan. After the scan, the needled him again, and later in the late hours of evening the doctor showed up in his room again. This time he was carrying with a red folder in his hand. He was looking tired, a little grim too but still calm and confident. The doctor was waiting for something, and he thought it's weird, cuz he was the one who was supposed to the waiting. The doctor walked an sat beside his bed. He then looked at him and said:"I've looked at your scan results, and it seems that in your part of the brain responsible for vision you have a little something." The doctor sighed and continued. "I don't know if when this thing has popped up in there, or how old it is. We have assigned you a brain specialist and I've talked to him. We are going to move you to a different section, where he will diagnose you further."

He was expecting an straight answer. "I either live or die." He thought to himself. The doctor left, he close his eyes again to get rid of all the duplicates. He started thinking about death. He had lived a good life, up until now at least. Of all the things that thought he still needed or wanted to do, and his death would put a stop to all that, there was still something encouraging about death. There was something very promising to come. and he thought to himself again:"All this time, I've looked for something that I can be certain of, I've read books as a child, and I have made multiple realities in search of a promising truth. I've studied philosophy and I have worked on Artificial Intelligence in computer science. All my life I have devoted my self to what I thought would one day be the truth."

He thought of an Alchemist story he had read back in junior high. The alchemist was looking for one pure substance that would change lead to gold. he working daily in long hours, but in one of his experiments something exploded, and the harmful fumes of the experiment partially blinded him. He went to the best doctor in town, and the doctor told him that the alchemist must bring him 3500 gold pieces. His vision was his most important part of his life, and so he did all he could to find the gold pieces. It was laborious takes for a normal man, let alone for a blind one, but he pulled it off, and went back to the arrogant doctor. The doctor took the gold pieces, wet a piece of unwritten parchment, and put it on the alchemist's eyes. Couple of minutes after the doctor poured all the gold on alchemist and shouted at him: "This is Gold, This is Gold! This is the Gold that you created. and the substance is you. If you see this, you're blind no more." The alchemist had at that moment. He could see not with his eyes, with his heart. What the alchemist was searching for was always already there.

He thought of the story and how it had inspired him to what is most practical, to follow his passion, and search, and at the same time, to keep his grip with the reality. How he had tried to control his visions of the duplicates, and how he had made a good living for himself. He thought, how he has always seen the truth that he was looking for as something eternal, how he has thought even in philosophy the search is never-ending. But now, he was lying on his bed, with animated and un-animated duplicates around him whenever he intended to open his eyes. He shut his eyes even tighter at the thought of all this.

All this time, he has forgot, about one thing, and now that he could see it. How can he have missed it, how can all the philosophers and great minds that have come before him, that have made the biggest claims to the eternal truths, how can they have missed this. How can so countless methodologies to rid us off our biases and doubts to get the essence of something indisputable could have failed to see this. and yet he was seeing it here with his eyes closed.

Death is inevitable. It was always there, just like his inseparable shadow from light of the sun, death was there, the inseparable shadow from the clarity of his life. The clearer he had known the meaning of life, the cleared he should have seen the meaning of death, its inevitability and infinitude. Death as not being anymore. He thought about all the scientists, philosophers, mystics who had discussed death. But how can you discuss death...

He was not a religious man, but it didn't matter know anyways. Whatever kind of after life he believed in, death was going to stop his life, his being in this world that he knows. It was undeniable and undoubtable. Even if he had believed in an after life just like this one, with the same people, his being gone from this world, changed his life on this world in a fundamental way, and that change was so dramatic. Even if he could think of death as a trip from A to B where A and B are so similar, that they are almost identical, then his departure from A to B would make the difference between the two worlds. No matter how he looked at his death, he find it anything less than extraordinary, and to think how he had forgot about it all his life. One thing was for certain here, if he would die, his existence would change, and that change would be fundamental, whether it would be complete stop, or some transfer into some other life. His existence as he knows it right now would not be anymore. He would not be anymore. All of the sentences that would use him as a subject would have to have past verbs only, and he hated past verbs....there was unnecessary 'ed' at the end, or some irregular less lively form. 'was' was with 3 letters and 'is' with two. And he already hated 'was' the 'w' was so un-animated relative to the 'i' in 'is'. The conditional: "if you die, you 'are' no more" had to be true.

But it got even worse. Not only the conditional was true, the premise of the conditional was going to become true, at least if his tumor was deadly enough. "Or lively enough."He repeated the reflection of his words, talking to himself. He gave a smile at the irony. His tumor had to be lively enough for it to become deadly enough for him. He was still in alone in the room. Nobody could think he is crazy again, and so he turned his smile into laughter. The irony was even greater than he initially thought.

He remembered how he has celebrated his birthdays with candles and gifts and a few people he had known when he was younger and with music and large speakers when he was older. How he, like any other had celebrated cherished this life so forcefully to forget what shaped the horizon of meaning for it all along. He remembered his turning 20, and how had thought he is becoming old, he remembered graduating from university and thinking the same thing. He remembered his 30th birthday, and he thought at least the first stage of his life is well gone. But he had never so clearly compared these moments to reference point in the future. His preoccupation with life stopped that. 30 was a number starting form zero, and what other could it have been. But the truth was, the origin of his life had not been his birth, it was going to be his death and the date being unknown made it all the more extraordinarily meaningful.

All these thoughts...so brilliant and so new to him, he had to write them down and he had all the time in the world. In the course of the next couple of days he had to wait for the doctors to decide upon his condition based on their tests. Early on in this waiting game he called the nurse and asked for a pencil and paper. When the nurse came back his eyes were open. He had to get used to the double vision if he was going to write. The nurses handed him two pencils and he grabbed them with his two right hands. It was still very weird. he turn right to see who the second hand belongs too for the thousands time, but there was obviously no one there. He started scribbling down on the hospital bed's table which was designed exclusively for eating tasteless hospital food in an uncomfortable fashion.
Finally his door opened and the the brain specialist and his own doctor came in. He stopped writing. The doctors had their session, and it was now time to tell him the final results. It was his doctor and the brain specialist. The brain specialist looked more senior, his two heads had a some hair left but a few of them were still black. His doctor looked at the brain specialist. The specialist nodded towards him, and his doctor approached his bed and sat once again beside him he looked tired again, confident, but not relaxed at all. He looked at the specialist once more. This time the specialist didn't nod, he moved to the far side of the room where a chair was waiting for him. The doctor then turned to him and said:"There is no easy way to break this down to you." He moved in the bed to properly face the doctor, and before the doctor finished his sentence he smiled and said:"It's ok, just tell me how much time do I have left." The doctor was now looking down at his chest now, as if trying to summon up his powers to come up with the next words: "You have less than two weeks. I am sorry, we couldn't specify an exact date, but the disease would first make you blind, and then it would become painful." He smiled again, this time more to calm the good doctor, and said: "don't worry about the time, I actually rather not know about the time, is there anything you can give me to reduce the pain when it strikes?" The doctor was surprised. He could tell from his four eyes widening and then looking at the specialist, who had stood up at the what heard from him. "well, I know from the past, that some people in your situation rather leave the hospital, and do something they really want to do. hm...Sure." He lowered his voice. " I'll give you some strong pain killers, give the 911 a call when you felt you're going blind and then take the pills." He didn't want to have pain"Thanks." a little relieved. The doctor stood up, and walked said:"You can go when the nurse comes, let me know if there is anything else I can help you with." "I will" he replied. The doctors left, and he could bet he had heard the specialist telling the doctor:"see, it wasn't so hard, but you got it easy. It's usually much harder to tell a normal person that they are dying."

He didn't wait for the nurse to come. He knew what he had to do. He wanted to share what he has discovered in these moments with the world. He thought to himself about the consequences of his discovery, of how we ignore death, and it can help us live, and produce morals and ethics if we always remember death. He thought about persons, and what makes us human and not pigs. If all we do is what is most practical, then that is just what an animal does. He was thinking whether in his life he has been an intelligent animal, or an actual person. The nurse came, and brought his clothes. His brother had come to pick him up from the hospital. Nobody knew the news yet, but they would soon find out, and with it they would hopefully realize partly at least what he had realized. His brother was cool, he had the ability to swallow big news like this, and he would definitely be the first one to know. He thought he would make a burden on his brother to tell others about it. After all, he didn't want to waste anytime. In the car, his brother listened to him, he didn't cry or anything, but he turned down the music and remained quite for a long time. "he is taking it in" he thought.

He didn't waste anytime, he took out a tissue paper from the box that his brother kept in the car, and used the pencil from the the hospital to jot down some notes on the napkin:

The car stopped at his parent's place. He looked at his brother, his brother looked at him and said: "if we don't have a lot of time, we might as well start here, but I'll promise you to convince so that you can have this time to yourself." His brother was right. He did not have two weeks, he had two weeks in max. But he had no reason to be sad about anything, not that he was happy about it either. Everything was just normal, he just wanted to let the world know about what he has found out. They went upstairs...It was very hard for his parents, but his brother was really convincing, and his parents were very understanding. After spending some time there, he went to his old room. He felt sad now, his family was naturally very emotional about what was happening, but they understood and so did he.

It was here that he had started studying philosophy, here that he has written his first lines of codes. His walls were still full of notes from his essay, and quotes from his favorite philosophers. In one day, his life had changed, not because he was facing death, but because he had found death, and he seemed to have understood death. There was only one more thing he needed to write, and then he thought he can video himself speaking his notes, and put the video on the internet, and distribute it within his family. He would never be able to let the whole world know. But so long as it was his world that could know, it would be enough for him. He laughed again at how he could be so appropriately practical about his goals. He opened his laptop and started typing up the last scripts. This time he was talking to others.

"can u relate your values to your behavior, or do you relate your values to other's behavior and your behavior to yourself.

You impeach, people, whether they are absent or present, about what they think, and how they think it, or about people about what they do and how they do it. You hate some of others, and those who you hate, you can easily come to hate. And these others are those who you should be fearful about…because you don't know them…

You should be afraid of them, just as the small children are afraid of lonely old strangers in their neighborhood. They are the dam loneliest people, and small children are afraid of them, because when people are lonely you don't know what they are thinking about. When they are lonely, they are weird; they are outcasts in thought and mind. Yes you should be afraid of the ones that you do not even know, and you are afraid of the ones that you don't know. But sometimes kids are afraid of the old lady out of a respect for her elderly position, out of respect for considering all the things that she is, and they don't know because she is so lonely that nothing about her could be found out. But you could also be afraid of the old lady in another way…you could hate her and be afraid of her. You could hate her and be afraid of her…

So you would hate her, and you would be afraid of her…but times passes, and without knowing the old lady, you start to develop an understanding of her as though she is a black box. You plug an input into her, and take something out of her. You think you know her, you think that is all there is to know about her, and you start thinking that you are not afraid anymore. You would have the illusion of losing fear, and now only the hate remains. But because the fear is still really there, and because there is no bravery being replaced by it (bravery does not replace fear, unless the unknown becomes fully known in itself, which is impossible). So…the hate remains, and you start your exploitations…from the kid who was afraid out of respect, you become the kid who is afraid out of hate, and now that you seem to think that you have not anything to be afraid of, you become the kid, who hold the burns the old lady, as if you're holding one of your old dolls on fire. You torture her, and torture her, take her head off, as if it is you sisters’ doll’s head…."

As he was writing, something attracted his attention. His room had been left for a while, and over the years had become a sort of storage room by his parents, partly at least. He was so focused on his work, that he had forgot to pay attention to the parts of his past lying there. On the furthest corner of the room from him, was their old TV set, it was color TV, but had no remote control. He went to look at the two TVs. Beside it were some of his Mother's supplies, like their sugar, rice, and potatoes. What got him to the corner though was not any old memory, there was a small ant going in a tiny circle in an unnatural fashion. He looked closer at the two ants. They were upside down. The legs were moving wildly in the air looking for a grip. There was something wrong with one of the legs and one of the hands. They had somehow been twisted. The ant was shaking his legs so furiously that he could almost hear them both shriek. He tried to help the ant on to his legs with the tip of his pen. As soon as the ant's feet touched the ground, the movement changed, but it was only after he tipped the ant, that he understood the real cause of its misery. The legs on one side of the ant were straightened as if crushed by an unbearable force. The ant was dragging its legs. But because one of the hands was also injured it couldn't walk straight, after some steps, the ant would tip itself over.

He thought of killing the ant, to rid it out of this never-ending misery. But then he thought of himself, and how life has become so valuable to him in the face of death. So he tipped the ant back on its legs again. He then took out the napkin he had wrote his notes on in the car, and pushed the ant on them. The ant started walking, it was still suffering, the movements were confident and slow, but the surface of the napkin, now black and white with words of death and life, was not straight, and so the ant could not tip itself over. "Suffering is inseparable part of life." He thought. He looked around for another ant. There was one passing by the rice sacks. He tried to shake off the mesmerized creature off the napkin to where it could get some help from his own kind. As soon as the broken leg touched the ground, the other ant, starting running. "What the hell!" He almost whispered these thoughts.

He let to helpless ant up to the napkin again and took it closer to the other ant. The other ant again started running, with a speed that an ant could hardly be capable of. He getting frustrated, his blood reaching boiling point. Here he was at his final days, trying to make a very simple, doable good deed, and it seemed impossible. He felt anger, he didn't know why but he did. He pushed the other ant by force up the napkin. The two ants were no on the same piece of ground hovering in the air. At his point, The other ant was moving furiously, and the mesmerized one, was almost standing still. The other ant was at all times maintaining the furthest distance from his injured fellow, carefully scanning the edges of the napkin for a way out of this circular jail that lead him to where it was doing its best to avoid. "How the other one could be so unlike a person." He thought. He then quickly reflected:"A person would make reflections on what they desire. This ant though, undoubtedly run as fast as it can, it run by its instincts. There is no reflection for him but his survival. He has sensed approaching the danger zone, and the is running for his life. He is running for his life even when the broken-leg follows him."

He looked at the four ants...and took them beside his laptop. He then gently let the furious ant off the napkin, and he left the broken legged creature where was. He thought of people, and how they can be just like this ant and the other ant. At the sight of danger, even a slight harm, or un-benefit, choosing what is easy over what is right. He started typing again, he knew now how to articulate his final message:

"And despite all that…you think all this is being done just reasonably, that she is what she is, and that you know what her IS is…and that, that is all about her. You think you know, and you exploit her so much, that you start to believe in your delusions. You start to think that you are right. And that is all that matter…

Pity pityyy…we are all made hypocrites…our pride blinds our eyes and breaks our legs and we fail to see, and even if we do see, we fail to walk there…

Gradually…forgetfulness encompasses your hate and your pride…and you just exploit, and at the same time you develop values that are good in themselves, but that are totally out of line with that disgusting blood and mud that lurks underneath your forgetful skin.

All the values then are upside down. God forbid you more wealth, more power, more authenticity and more beauty.

The choice has far moved from being between right or wrong to between right and easy. And you always choose easy…and now…that you've grown from that little bastard kid to a full grown un-adult, you choose the easy so easily, because you don't even care what the hard choice is…choosing easy is a value more important than all of your other values put together. And that by itself…it is not only wrong…but it makes you what is called a self-denying hypocrite. And that I cannot hate enough…me, I cannot hate enough. I cannot hate myself enough, and now that I have two weeks left, I have to do something about it."

He left closed the laptop. He knew what he had to do. He took the pencil again and left a note, for his brother to read and record his work and put on the internet when he could, in case he was not there anymore. and tomorrow after his breakfast with his family, he felt his double visions disappearing. Every thing was slipping away. It was time. "Good that I've really lived his yesterday really as if he was supposed to die today." he thought to himself. He took the pills the doctor had gave him, and called an ambulance, his parents and his brother walked to the ambulance. It was as if he was going away for a few weeks. His message has got into his brother, and into his parents. He was sure that it would make it into some other people as well.

He died on the same day. He never became famous for what he wrote, and never impacted the whole world. But he had an impact on those that he knew, and that was his own world and so it was more than enough for him. Death was no longer an obstacle, it was the meaning of life, and it brought with it a most promising message that a medium can bring, life is well worth living the way you choose it to be.

Ch.8: Glasses

He never stood by the mirror again, but the duplicates kept appearing at times when he was writing his school work. Years passed, and he went to high school. After two years in high school, he started to feel that he can't read stuff as good as he used too. So he went to do a serious eye-exam. It was something more involved than his yearly eye check ups. and it was with a different eye doctor too. He thought this time there was no escape, he would be wearing glasses now. Not that there was anything wrong with wearing glasses, and with seeing better, but his eyes though tricky and blur at times seemed all right to him. He was not sure whether what his eyes told him was the true colors and dimensions of the world. But there was something unoriginal about glasses that bothered him. Maybe it was just the acceptance of the fact that his eyes are not able to perceive his surroundings as well as they did. He had always come to believe the existence of things even the duplicates through seeing them with his eyes. He was afraid because his eyes were his existence defining tools. He thought he would be seeing the world through the lenses of his glasses, and he wished that there would be nothing wrong with his glasses. There was very small difference between the different shades of different colors and he could tell this whenever he looked out of the window through the glass, or at different times of the day. The amount of light his eyes received from his surroundings seemed to correspond to different shades of the same color.

He promised himself, that if the doctor proscribed him glasses, he would always keep them stainless, just as clean as possible so that he can still see the real in the reality that used to see with his own eyes. But the results were different. The doctor didn't tell him to wear glasses, but what he did tell him, he wished he had told him to have an eye operation.

Ch.7: Extract the real out by Force

He was waiting in a room that looked awfully like a doctor's waiting room, except that not all colors where white, and not all lights were glaring fluorescents. There were no mirrors in the office, just some frame less pictures of dusk and dawn. The magazines were weird too. Most of them had a word which he found really hard to read. How the hell were you supposed to read the letters P, S, Y and C together anyways. A lady, called his last name, and he and his mother went to another smaller room which looked like his dad's office, but with no office supplies. There wasn't even a computer, just a bed like chair, and faintly smiling lady who seemed to be a friend of his mom. He got in, and said hi. His mother said something to the lady, and then returned to him and said:"Did you say hello?''. "Yes." He said politely. The lady looked at him kindly, then back at his mother and said calmly:"Ok, let's start."

A long time passed and he was told stories about how friends could be good or bad, he was even asked if has real friends. But of course he has real friends. What was that even supposed to mean. He could tell his mother was getting less and less interested too. There was one particular question though that startled him. The lady told a long story about some friends in a playground and then asked him: "Do you have any friends, who don't talk much, but it's you who's doing most of the talking." He said:"yes." A faint smile appeared on the lady's lips, and his mother began to look at him more intensely, even more than when they entered the place. She then asked him:"Do the two of you know each other? what is his name?" He was sitting down on a weird bench, the bench was so that he was almost lying down. His mother was now up on his side, and the lady too. He looked at them and said:"His name is Fred, but he has never talked to me. " The lady's smile became a little wider and she said:"But Fred never talks to you, how do you know that he is your friend for real?" "But he is." He said back. "Yes, he might be your friend, but how can he be if he has never talked to you?"As she said this, her mother was nodding in agreement. "NO!, I mean he is, he is, whether he is my friend or not, I don't know but he is, I am just wondering whether he is or he is not."...

More time passed, and the lady suddenly stood up, and walked to his mom and showed her, the watch she was wearing. His mother came back walking to him, and said:" Ok, let's go. I'll buy you an ice-cream on our way back." But the he now, he was startled. His conversation with the lady had ended as if she was still in a middle of something. He said goodbye to her, to which she kindly replied. "Let's invite some your friends for a sleepover." He had admitted that Fred may bot be his friend, but never that he doesn't exist. But he had a feeling his mother expected him to have believed by now that Fred doesn't exist. According to the lady, Fred was just a figment of his imagination. But how can anyone see a figment of imagination when they were awake.
He took a bite at the ice-cream, and with each bite, he felt guiltier for still believing in Fred. But the more he had seen Fred, or any other duplicates, the less he had known about them. and now, he wanted to let them all go. Maybe they were right, maybe he was too old to have unreal friends. and he had so many friends who were real enough to reply back to him.

Ch.6: Frederick

He wanted to try again with the mechanical pencil to see if he could make Fred appear. He called him Fred because it was a name his dad used to mention a lot when he would talk to some of his friends. From what he had overheard, Fred was a guy who was very close to his dad and his other friends but he was usually in a bad mood and said very few words too. Most of the time though, his dad and his friends talked about Fred's situation and what he meant by certain stuff that he said. He talked to his friends at school about the Fred he had seen, just like his dad talked about Fred with his own friends. But Fred had never said a word to him, even when he had said hi to Fred, he had just disappeared.

There was another problem too. He had found that he has less chances to look in the mirror for Fred. His Mom seemed to pass by the washroom more frequently, when he took a longer time in there, and as for the tall mirror as long as her mother was home, it seemed impossible to fetch a time alone with the mirror.

So one day he waited for his mother to take her afternoon nap. He took the mechanical pencil and went to stare at the mirror. He stared at the pencil, and tried to think about nothing. But it was impossible. Instead his thoughts wandered about how impossible it was to think of nothing, but as he was thinking these thoughts, he saw Fred again in the corner of his eyes. Same place as before. Fred seemed to be standing right beside him. He was afraid to look at him more intensely, he knew that Fred would just hide behind him again. So he just raised his hands and whispered to his reflection and Fred: "Hi, don't go this time, wait a second. Please. I want to know why you go away when I so much as stop thinking of you, and start to think about you." It was getting harder for him to keep his stare away: "I want to know why, as soon as, I so much as look at you, or try to think about you rather just of you, you just disappear. " But suddenly he heard a loud voice that made him jump back. "Are you talking to yourself in the mirror?! Who are you talking too?" His mom was standing a few meters beside him. "No one." he said. but he thought that was least reassuring for his mother. She moved closer, and looked in the mirror. "Are you talking to yourself." He took a look in the mirror. Fred was gone, and he could see his mother's body and himself in the mirror. "Yes." "Listen tomorrow, you don't have to go to school, we are going to meet someone." her mother said, and she wasn't asking. At least he would got to skip a day of school and that by itself had to be good. "Thanks, Fred" he thought. and winked at his reflection, while his reflection was winking back.

Ch.5: Meeting

He had always had these thoughts before though. Whenever walking home from school, before turning every corner, he have had this feeling that somebody was going to be waiting there for him after the turn. Now he had actually seen that there was somebody else, but that someone wasn't somebody very different. Neither was he completely separated from him. He seemed to be ahead of his initial reflection in the mirror, but he wasn't way ahead of him. He was very close. Too close maybe he thought sometimes.
So one day he decided to confirm his feelings so he asked his mom. "Mom!" He said out of nowhere. "Yes dear?" Her mom said without turning to look at him. "Have you ever seen two people in the mirror." He asked cautiously.
"off course dear, whenever we comb your hair in front of the mirror I see myself and I can see you." she said. "No I mean have you ever seen another person in the mirror, somebody who is not with you outside the mirror, but is very close to you?" Had he said too much?

Her mother turned around to look at him. She thought about the school night. His son's teacher had told her and her husband that their son was doing all right, and seemed to get along with other people pretty good. But every once in a while, he just distanced himself away from others, and seemed to look aimlessly at things around him. She had told them that in these times, that had become more frequent, he had given her a peculiar deep stare. Something the teacher had obviously never seen. Her teacher had told them, that his friends made fun of him sometimes because every now and then he had stared at his reflection in the washroom mirrors.

"So? Have you?" He asked this time insistently. "No I haven't, but have you?" She said inquiring. "No." He said abruptly and walked away. He could still feel his mother's eyes upon him as he left the room. Was the duplicate feeling this too? If he were, he would probably not show up for a long time.

Ch.4: The Stranger

The next couple of days, whether he was sitting in class, or at home, he tried to force a duplicate of himself, or his teachers as they taught, or people on the streets, or anything else, but never did it happen.

Time passed, and every now and then, he could see duplicates of smaller things. He gradually learned that when he was writing or reading he could always make duplicates of lines appear on lined papers. One day, as he was looking at his new mechanical pencil in front of the mirror, he thought he had seen another person in the mirror to his reflection's right. But there was no body else in the room. He stared at the pencil even harder this time. There there was. On the corner of his eyes, He could see a duplicate of himself in the mirror. He raised his left hands. Two people in the mirror raised their right ones almost simultaneously. "Hey." He said after bit of hezitations, as if expecting a response. "Who are you?" He looked to hiz left. There was no body there. He checked his right too, no one there either. He looked back at the mirror. There was only his reflection. The duplicate was gone. How could he have had two reflections? Was this an embodiment of all of his duplicates coming together? was this person in the mirror the same person who wrote those duplicate lines and read those duplicate books all these years?

Ch.3: Reflections

He looked at the streets again, and looked back the page hoping that the duplicate might come back. There was only one paper, one series of lines. There was no duplicate of anything this time. He started thinking again. Why could he only touch the translucent image with his translucent fingers and not the other set of fingers. But the same moment he gazed aimlessly at the paper while sinking into his thoughts, the duplicate appeared again. Excited this time, he tried to avoid focusing on the duplicates. They seemed to be appearing when he wasn't concentrating on forcing them appear. They appeared when he wasn't thinking about them.
"Eh! What's going on?" He thought for one moment if the duplicates could actually tell whether he was thinking about them or not. He got up, and went for the tall mirror at the entrance of the house. He looked at the mirror and tried to think of something other than making a duplicate of himself in the mirror. But nothing happened. He tried harder, but still nothing happened.

Ch.2: Where did the other go?

There were two lines, and two papers. Still keeping his stare, he tried to grip one of the papers with his fingers. His gripping fingers went through it. It was untouchable. The translucent paper was apparently an untouchable one, maybe even a fake one. So instead he gripped the other paper, and his fingers felt the sensation of paper this time, but at the same time his eyes realized that a set of fingers gripping the transparent paper too. He broke his stare, and tried to focus on what the fake paper looked like within his translucent fingers, and why did it seem transparent and yet so distinguishable. But as soon as he shifted his pupils, the images became ONE. "Where did it go?" He thought to himself. He even got a little disappointed, but the duplicates were gone for good.

Ch.1: The Duplicate

It was a winter day, and he was facing the window reading his new story book. His room on the 4th floor faced the street. Every once in a while he took a glimpse at the street, following people as they walked passed the buildings. Some of them were rushing, and the rest too. It seemed windy, but "hey, you can't see the wind blowing, you can just feel it." He remembered his Dad say. So he just waited for somebody with a scarf to pass by.

Waiting, he sank back into the sofa again. He was so proud of his eyesights. Already some of his friends were wearing glasses, and even if they weren't, they never so apt with their eyesights anyways. He could have looked at stereoscopic picture, and recognize the image inside, even of he waved the picture around. His eyes had so far caught sight of interesting stuff anywhere and this usually worked to his benefit. He remembered the cover of his ipod's earplug. "Sure feels better to wear earplugs with the cushion thingys on." He thought. He had lost them many times, and instead had found other ones here and there. People seemed to be losing them all the time, and not being able to find them ever again.

He sank in the sofa again. The sofa gave him a lazy feeling. The interiors of the condo were pretty warm, and seeing the cold streets made it even feel lazier for him. He felt a yawn coming and started rubbing his eyes, but right then he thought he saw someone with a scarf going pass the building facing him. "Eeeh!" he said to himself surprized. It wasn't that the scarf wasn't dancing with the wind, it was just that the woman wearing the scarf seemed a little fuzzy. But that was probably because his right eye had watered from his rubbing it. So he covered his left eye with his hand, and tried to test the left eye by looking at the lady with more intensity. It didn't change anything.

"Dammit! Could it be?" He said to himself, while still holding his hand on his left eye. He thought of wearing glasses. But that should still be fine, it probably wasn't his eyes that made him sharp, it was his brain that helped him focus his eyes, and direct his attention to objects around him. So, he tested the other eye too. The lady walking by seemed pretty clear to him this time. Relieved, he uncovered his eye, and shifted his stare to the paper and started thinking about his right eye. But as soon as he thought his first word, he recognized something different and weird about the scripts of his book.

It wasn't that the scripts were blurred. He could clearly distinguish the words and the lines. But he was seeing TWO lines. "What the Hell!" he freaked out. Both images seemed clear the second one was a little translucent, he could see behind it but the image was not blurry at all. But how could that be. He could still see his hand holding the paper to his face, and he could see only ONE right arm, but nevertheless he saw two lines, and two papers. The two images were only a short distance apart, but they were apart nonetheless. But how could that be, how could he see two pictures of the same image.

The Rich Man

The rich man has his motor-car.
His country and his town estate
He smokes a fifty-cent cigar.
And jeers at fate

He frivols through the livelong day .
He knows not poverty her pinch.
His lot seems light his heart seems gay
He has a cinch

Yet though my lamp burns low and dim
Though I must slave for livelihood
Think you that I would change with him????

You bet I would

------
Thanks to Mirza Ali
http://mirza-ali.blogspot.com/2007/07/rich-man.html

RAW THOUGHT: Help yourself with Mashed Potatos!!!

I have a philosophical reflection journal, or log or whatever, where I write even the tiniest ideas, in as long sentences as I want, and in as clear form as I want. Obviously I do this for me. and sometimes, not often, I take the least controversial, more touchable notes in change them to a post in here. But this time I don't feel like it at all, and especially about this note. Here we go: enjoy the dish of mashed potatoes.

Everything is movement. Engineering vs. Science, or dancing to a rhythm vs. Listening to it. Life is movement, philosophy is a stop, and poetry is: "let's go back". A movement is what already IS, maybe that's why it's so hard to define this flux.
Life is the movement, but Religion (from the most spiritual to the most practical) is the worship of life not of the movement, so is science and so is a dogma.
Technology is interpreting the movment, it is interpreting what is, not what was. engineering is Using what is, not for the purpose of understanding it, but for the purpose of making it into life, to manipulate slow moving things into our own pace. To Make movement.
Depression is stopping to move, happiness is fast movement, sadness is starting to think.

I hate philosophy, and I did, because it is a stop, and yet I love it because I feel sometimes we feel psychologically sick to do the opposite to give myself meaning, and philosophy is the exact opposite to the movement, by trying to Stop the movement itself to think what it is. Not knowing that it just IS, just like newton formulated it, and then Einstein formulated it, just like heidegger put his philosophy, and Levinas moved it. and it will be moved again...cuz there is no stopping the movement, you can only study it at one instance and that is it. next instance is another existence.

I am going to study philosophy because I believe undrestanding the movement will lead to long term goals that will lead to the turest form of manipulation of life as is....

Disease

Philosophy is the disease of people, and poetry is the disease of philosophers.

By Siavash J @ siavashj.com

Richard Cory

(taken from Poem Master: Mirza Ali )

When ever Richard cory went down town.
We people on the pavement looked at him.
He was a gentleman from sole to crown.
Clean favored. And imperially slim.


And he was always quietly arrayed.
And he was always human when he talked.
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"good morning" and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes .richer than a king/
And admirably schooled in every grace.
In fine we thought that he was every thing.
To make us wish that we were in his place .

So on we worked .and waited for the light
And went without the meat . and cursed the bread.
And Richard cory . one calm summer night
Went home and put a bullet through his head::::?

by Edwin Arlington Robinson, 1869-1935
Thanks to Mirza Ali

"If you want to achieve peace of mind and happiness, have faith. If you want to be a disciple of truth, then search." - Nietzsche

"Is Fred SHIT?"

When I came home from school, on my way to my room, I passed the fridge. "Hallo Mr. Kierkegaard!" I said to my dogmatically