Second Chances

Have you ever considered what you would (or could) do with a second chance? Of course you have; who hasn't? The appeal of retrying an attempt with retrospective knowledge is nauseatingly powerful.

I have long maintained that all human desires are different faces to one desire - control. You want to be taller (or shorter) - but not too tall (or short). You want to know much more than you do - but not enough to kill off the excitments of learning and experience. All our desires revolve around our desire to be able to control the balance of all the variables that both make us and surround us.

Our obsession with second chances is no different - we want to control our past and perfect it. But few are those who consider the consequences of trying again critically; the huge majority are blinded by the dream of success.

Think of any skill you have ever acquired; I shall use billiards as an example. Most probably, the first time you tried to play billiards, the failure was misrabley hilarious. You try again, and the chances are either you are still as bad as you were, or have improved by a very tiny margin. A lot of practice is required before you can play comfortably, and it is the same story with second chances.

They are a lie - and a big one.

You will need much more than just a second chance; you might need a number that runs through the third significant figure. Not only that, you will also need contemplation, concentration, determination, etc. - work!

As much as I loathe the idea of it, there is no way to achieve 'it' but work, because if you reach or achieve 'it' without the hard work and back-breaking experience, you will always be greedier for more.

The only way to comprehend the awesomeness and incredibility of what you have done is to fight for it to understand the challenges and be fully soaked with the humility of your progress, which will, in turn, give you the satisfaction of self-pride and the wise hunger to steady work.

There are no shortcuts; only illusions of them.

Autumn

In the melancholy of a rainy day autumn night, lies the grandest and most complete of life visions. A sort of black and white tint is applied, brightening car headlights and making car horns, somehow, louder. It blurs out the hustle & bustle of the narrow streets drowning the incredible chatter in a blanket of silence.

All that can be heard is the rain.

The grand symphony of Autumn, unlike the sparkly happy whistling birds of Spring, are more expressive of life and its shenanigangs. In a solemn sort of way, it is more beautiful - no two drops are the same size and no two drops fall the same way.

If you listen very carefully, you can hear a million stories - some spoken, some yelled, some pleaded - all at once. Roads and streets, themselves cracks of a city, lined with cracked bricks, wet stone and tired asphalt. They bear witness to the million stories - planned, unforseen, pleasant or nauseating - unflinchingly alive and dead simultaneously, like a volcano under a deep ocean.

Relationships of all sorts formed, broken or mended on the streets are never spoken of until the Autumn, when the red-yellow leaves carpet them and the cold rain is blown upon them by the moody winds. That is when the city stones speak. That is Autumn's grand symphony. If only we'd listen...

Lessons from a little girl

Very recently, I was on a plane, an experience I always enjoy (notwithstanding the process of getting into, and out of, the plane). I always hope for non-intrusive, relaxed passengers to have taken the seats surrounding mine, but this time I found myself sandwiched between the window and a cute little girl of around 5 years.

Unlike a great many number of people, specially around my age, I am always fascinated by, and fond of, children, their behavior a serious food for both mind and soul. Thus, I found myself in a figurative gold mine of observation and reflection.

The first thing that always hits you about kids is the persistent curiosity, because we are all curious about somethings, but when we find an answer we stop right there. We don't think about alternative answers or the question that the very answer produced in the first place. I suppose childhood is the time when you get continuously disappointed by answers that are less than your ambitions of the magic that might be behind the question, eventually just killing curiosity altogether.

Of Ideas, Bears, Radicalism and Wolves

Often, a man's (or a woman's) head runs, regardless of intent, into a trace of thought which leads to the formation of a concept that is alien or opposite in cultural (and other) aspects, bringing said thinker to form the conclusion that is: said thought is taboo. However, once in every blue moon, someone comes along and speaks their mind out. The dynamics of such a situation can be illustrated quite accurately by a particularly strange model of a bear and a pack of wolves.

We can represent the people by the wolves; the culture, religion, tradition, etc. of the people is the bear, and the pack of wolves and the bear are about to clash. To begin with, the people must have an idea that is not so radical that is for themselves to refuse it (think of the bear being too big for the pack of wolves to consider it for a fight), and the people must not be in comfort with their customs (the bear and the wolves aren't the best of friends).

Now in accordance to hunting sequences, the first step would be for the wolves to corner the bear. For the sake of simplicity (and the killing of dumb arguments), we will say that the ground beneath them and the surface on which the bear is cornered are both 100% flat and infinitely large, and there is nothing available to be used as weapons but their own bodies.

The second (and final) step is where one (or more) of the wolves steps up. This represents the number of people that agree to this radical idea opposing the norm; the more the people, the more the wolves unafraid of being first to challenge the bear. The bigger the bear, the higher the importance of customs and culture to the people. This is the most crucial step.

In most cases, the more radical the idea, the less amount of people taking it up, and the more the chances of the wolves' attack on the bear failing. If only one wolf takes a step forward with the rest being very hesitant and the bear hits him hard enough to kill him, the entire idea is dead. If many jump, and the bear is still too big, the idea is wiped off the face of history. However if even one wolf succeeds in mauling the bear, this can open up a flood of bravery within the other wolves, charging them into attacking the bear.

Remember: It is not the radicality of an idea that matters, but the logic behind it and its consequences; its pros and cons have to be weighed. Too often humans either outright refuse the idea without considering it like idiots or jump the wagon, once again like idiots. A civilized human, in my personal definition, is he/she who does not accept or refuse an idea or principle due to the acceptance or refusal of said principal by other humans.

"My dear Kepler, what would you say of the learned here, who, replete with the pertinacity of the asp, have steadfastly refused to cast a glance through the telescope?  What shall we make of this?  Shall we laugh, or shall we cry?" 
— Letter from Galileo Galilei to Johannes Kepler upon the Catholic Church's harsh treatment of the of the heliocentric model of the universe

Varro vs. Reth

Today, we went to a university for a workshop (it was more of a lecture) about exam stress management. This, however, was preceded by a boring lecture of what to look in a college and bla bla bla... so I ended up half writing a fight scene. Later, I decided to complete it and, well, here it is:
 

He was in his ‘own’ chair, his favorite. His red swollen eyes, untrimmed beard, messy hair and freshly scarred left cheek told a story, as he sipped upon the powerful alcoholic drink. Mead, they called it. Honey wine, the bloody Gods’ drink… every bit as sour and bitter as it is intoxicating. He took huge gulps without care, for he was expecting a visitor.

The barn’s door almost tore open, and as the bright, nearly ghost-like moonlight invaded this secluded place, a burly figure emerged standing before it. Little over 6 feet, his width even more intimidating and a face rendered indescribable with rage, he would have scared an army. “VARRO!” he bellowed with wrath ringing in his voice, an instant before it was broken by his own crazed sprint, blind with loathe.

The Beast King

I stare upon the horizon. I can see nothing but a sea of his enemies. They are huge. No, they are massive. Each one is large enough to blot out the entire observable sky. However, it is at the moment they appear most fierce, most powerful, that the first tinge of his awesome aura floods the heavens.

I can feel it. The beast king is here. Everytime I happen to get this feeling, I know what would lie ahead. An extraordinarily epic struggle of enormous proportion. This time it's different. The enemies seem stronger, darker, more powerful, this time. This time it's different.

He does not even flinch at their sight. Him seeing one of them is the same as him seeing a thousand. To him, number is immaterial, size is immaterial, strength is immaterial. To him, all is immaterial. He will do as he pleases, however he pleases. Nothing will stop him.