“In the midst of life, we embrace death.”

The poignancy of this phrase always gets me, albeit out of its original context and in more of an existential one.

In my opinion, the term ‘death’ here refers not to actual death, but to boredom in the existential sense. In this view, boredom encompasses the common definition of the word, but much more so as it represents the idea of stagnation, of immobility, of emptiness; a veritable living death, if you will.

I think it was Schopenhauer who wrote about the nature of boredom with greater clarity than I could ever muster. He suggested that life was essentially a task, or a challenge - a challenge to find meaning or to seize life itself. But in the event that life is seized, what then? Boredom ensues, and to avoid it, life must be seized again. But how does one seize life if it already lies within one’s grasp? And this was where Schopenhauer observed that we struggle to seize life, and then in order to avoid boredom, we must forget we had ever seized life in the first place.

A skydiver must return again and again to the ground in order to avoid boredom. He jumps out of the plane and should he find himself in a perpetual fall, he would be trapped, unable to escape boredom. Sameness would envelop him and, like a patient who grows tolerant to his medicine, the thrill would lose its effect on him.

And so he must pull the cord and touch the ground, if only to once again board the plane.

I suppose its the absurdity of the whole thing that fascinates me. It is all utterly and completely meaningless. And yet I find myself desperate to find some grasp on sensation to pull myself out of this emptiness of existence I’ve felt as of late. Really, the only time I find myself able to escape it lately is when I’m riding on an open road at high-speed, and I’m wonderfully reminded of my plain mortality and of how I could so easily simply die in that moment.

That’s absurd, too. It’s not just with driving at high-speed - it applies to the skydiver, to the daredevil, and to every thrill-seeker there ever was.

We seek to seize life by embracing death.

“The language of a people gives us its vocabulary, and its vocabulary is a sufficiently faithful and authoritative record of all the knowledge of that people.” - Denis Diderot, ‘Encyclopédie’

I just came across this quote while reading Foucault’s ‘The Order of Things’, and I find it a remarkable thought.

What it means is that every innovation our civilization develops, be it in the sciences, the arts, philosophy, or societal paradigms, is given a name upon conception. Once that piece of knowledge enters the communal consciousness, it is labelled and filed away under a certain title. These titles eventually make it into our dictionaries, our encyclopedias, and our literature, and these titles (and therefore the concepts they signify) become a part of our vocabulary.

What Diderot suggests here, then, is that simply by taking a dictionary from a hundred years ago, comparing it to a contemporary version, and taking note of the ways our vocabulary has changed in that century, one can develop an accurate image of the progression of a civilization, solely based on the evolution of its vocabulary.

So yeah, the logophile within me found this absolutely fascinating!

As prefects, we’re doing stuff for school spirit and trying to get people to go watch the game.

But we’re playing against the American International School of Abu Dhabi.

Their acronym is AISA. Read their school’s name again. Now back to me.

It has a Dhabi in it. Starting with a ‘D’. But the acronym ends with Abu. It isn’t the American International School of Abu. There’s a Dhabi right there.

It should be AISAD. Although that basically reads as ‘I SAD’, which isn’t all that impressive, it gets points for being free of aberrations, so why the hell not?

And the worst part is, it looks like nobody else seems to care about this travesty against humanity.

We’ve all heard it in a sentence at least once, and we’d have to agree that every sentence it has ever been used in has doubtlessly sounded much more dramatic.

“He fought … and lived to tell the tale.”

“He went where no man has gone before  … and lived.”

And the clichés go on and on.

But what I don’t see is why we don’t use this in more mundane conversation. It would certainly do wonders for our ego. It would transform so many sentences and take them to new levels!

FOR EXAMPLE:

I like to buy strawberry milk in school. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one who ever does buy it and probably ever has, and I don’t see why. Strawberry milk is awesome. But granted, seeing me with strawberry milk may not be the most impressive sight, and any mentions of it may not carry the most impressive connotations.

So take a sentence such as, “He is the only one who has ever bought strawberry milk.”

It sounds strange, and certainly not a little pejorative. He’s the only one? Clearly there must be a reason for it. What a weirdo, drinking strawberry milk when no one else does. Gosh.

BUT, take that sentence and add our wonderful ‘… and lived’ to it, and everything changes.

“He is the only one who has ever bought strawberry milk … and lived.”

My, my, who is this master of bad-assery who is willing to risk his very life in the pursuit of a delectable amalgamation of strawberries and dairy? Whenceforth does this superhuman bravery spring, giving him strength to stick his beloved appendage (the hand; not what you were thinking of, you pervert) into the forsaken, icy tundra where all magical things strawberry-flavoured are hidden away?

It’s incredible how this simple amelioration could have women fighting tooth-and-claw to propagate your genetic lineage, and other men filled with regret, much like an overly-‘excited’ canine the morning after a night of intense passion with its dearest stuffed animal (but not like that at all), and desperate for a chance to redo that fateful moment when they chose the unholy beverage that would spell their doom.

And in that moment when you put the straw to your mouth amidst gasps of pure awe, and utilize your unrivaled knowledge of the world and its ways to summon forth the strawberry goodness from the depths of its cage as the first to faint begin to fall to the ground, one profound thought shall fill your mind in its entirety:

“I’m not even thirsty.”

Lying in bed late at night, this thought popped into my head (at a place and time when most of my thoughts often do) and I was compelled to write it down somewhere. And then I thought, ‘Where better than the internet?’ because I am seventeen, have a blog, and am kept awake at three in the morning by thoughts about thoughts.

So I’ll start by saying that recently I’ve started considering the perspective that thought, and therefore consciousness, are wholly functions of our biology. Not taking the perspective, just considering it. It’s a ruddy depressing perspective, after all.

It seems quite counter-intuitive because of how detached our body seems to be from our mind at times. Even in communication we refer to our bodies no differently than we may refer to our possessions or tools, with a statement such as, “These are my hands and I will juggle all the things with them,” being no different from a statement such as, “These are rocks and I will throw them at your face in a most unfriendly fashion.”

You get my point.

Over the course of civilization, we have also come to know of terms such as ‘soul’ and ‘spirit’ and many such things, all used to describe this separation of mind and body.

Returning to the perspective I’d mentioned initially, it does still seem possible that all of these notions of separation are simply an elaborate illusion developed by our mind. As a function of our biology, it would follow that its prime directive, it’s raison d’être, would be to simply ensure the survival of the organism by whatever means necessary.

It may possibly have been some time after the creation of this function that we came to be aware of death.

At this moment, we became aware of an inevitable expiration date stamped invisibly onto all of our bodies; we realized that someday, we would die. And the natural prerogative, simply doing what it does best, convinced our minds that the best way to survive would be to simply detach itself from the body, at least conceptually, to stick with the perspective. And so we realized that our body would die, but we no longer felt the same connection to our body, and that therefore freed us to believe that we’d severed the connection of death. Essentially, we were conscious.

So the moment we became aware of death was the moment our consciousness was born.

Of course, scientifically speaking, all of this probably isn’t the slightest bit true, but it’s where my mind takes me when I let it drive this perspective.

And I suppose even with that separation of mind and body, we still can’t escape death. In all honesty, I’d say we double our deaths.

There is a saying that goes something along the lines of, “Every man dies two deaths: One when his body dies, and a second when his name is spoken for the last time.”

The first time I came across that, it set me thinking for most of the day and I have to admit, realizing that every single person you know and care about will one day say your name for the very last time can be kind of a downer. And then you feel kind of guilty realizing that you will end up saying each and every one of those people’s names for the last time eventually.

But however sad the thought might have made me, I’m glad I thought it.

I never regret thoughts. Actions, I’ve regretted many. Words, said or unsaid, I’ve regretted even more. But thoughts, never. The reason is simple. Actions and words involve others, and it is often the effect that these actions and words have on others that causes you to regret them. But my thoughts are mine, and mine alone. And while it may seem at times that the inability of any other human being to truly know me simply due to their lack of access to my thoughts (to paraphrase Aldous Huxley) may be disheartening at times, the modicum of privacy it affords an individual is priceless.

So I guess I could just tell you, dear reader (hopefully existent), that I had planned for that entire lead up to this point where I finally begun to write about what exactly I think a thought is, but I guess we both know that that would be a bare-faced lie. It’s okay, let’s just pretend it’s not a lie and we’ll keep the truth just between the two of us.

So what exactly are my thoughts on thoughts? Let me think about it.

See what I did there? Yeah, I thought it was incredibly lame, too.

Well, I’d like to think that a thought is more than a biological line of dominos, a testament to the wondrous nature of cause and effect, but unfortunately, I do see the logic in that. Every single thought, even this one I’m having right now as I write this, or the one you’re having right now as you read this, is the product of every single thought you have ever thought in your entire life. Every memory of yesterday or your childhood, desire for a sandwich or a lifestyle, or irrational-but-symbolic dream, be it of zombie llamas or your abusive step-parent chasing you down a narrow passageway which is really vertical and you’re falling; all of them can be traced back along the gossamer web of cause and effect, the dominos being followed back to find the first piece to fall.

And yet, I don’t see that as being a practical train of thought. It’s more than just the fact that it’s a lot of work to work that out. It’s the fact that, well, it’s just too much work to work that out. There are just too many variables to really be able to claim that a certain thought could have been predicted at all. I suppose it’s quite like Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, except I’m trying to apply it to thoughts I’m bouncing off the walls of my mind rather than quantum mechanics, as it was intended for.

And thus, having successfully failed to give a real answer to the question that I’d begun with, I’ll do what I usually do and leave the question to you (hey, that rhymed!).

So, and forgive me for the impending pun, what are your thoughts on thoughts?

Nothing special, just the usual routine type thing even though I haven’t had a proper check-up in over a year as far as I can remember.

What was weird though, was that the dentist had this mirror clipped onto the light that was being flashed into my mouth. So, being faced with the rather splendid choice of either enjoying the very clear view of him sticking a fucking drill into my mouth as I silently scream, “Oh, what fresh hell is this?” in my head, or simply looking at something else, I obviously chose the latter.

Then I was faced with the dilemma of exactly what else there was to look at.

The walls were largely dull (no offense to the dentist, I’m sure he’s a marvelous home decorator in his free time), the rack of various other sharp tools he could stick into my mouth was intimidating, and staring into the dentist’s face while he did his dentist-y thing would have just been plain awkward. I mean, if you had a drill in your hand while you went about my dental business, would you really be that focused on your job with me staring into your soul?

I didn’t think so. (And this is assuming that you’re human and are quite concerned about people seeing what you hide behind your eyes)

Long story short, I manned up and just closed my eyes the entire time. Like a baws.

So, dear followers, do tell, what do you do to pass the time while in the dentist’s chair?

Consider this an appreciation post for the magnificent tapestry that is the English language.

Words are powerful. They can be simple or intricate, graceful or crude, specific or vague; they may even embody both extremes in a single form at times in the form of gorgeous, efficacious dichotomies. And for all their power, influence and beauty, words are nothing more than varying combinations of syllables. Even syllables in themselves can be variable. The ‘ch-’ in chair or chore certainly doesn’t sound like the ‘ch-’ of chameleon or chiropractor, and yet they are the very same pair of letters.

So out of the multitudinous strings of syllables that exist in the glorious English language, a certain few stand out to the ear; a few certain words that, regardless of meaning, simply sound beautiful. These are a few of those words:

• Anodyne - Just the ‘-dyne’ syllable alone is music to my ears. A word that simply rolls off the tongue.
• Petrichor - A beautiful, trisyllabic, image-evoking noun that I love for both its aesthetic beauty and its inherent meaning: ‘The smell of rain on dry ground.’ 
• Ephemera - This enigmatic trisyllabic word embodies a mysterious and lustrous persona in the byzantine conduits of my mind. The constituent parts independent beauty effectively coagulate into a truly marvelous word.
• Amaranthine - There’s just something about tetra-syllabic words that makes them tempting to use in both poetic and spoken form. I find the ‘-thine’ syllable beautiful in and of itself.

And finally, 

• Chaos - This is my absolute favourite word in the English language. Of all the five letters that could be together, none seem as beautiful to me as this word. It lies surrounded by hordes of verbs with their tense-specific ‘-ing’ endings and the sea of nouns with their humdrum ‘-er’s; in the midst of this chaotic and virulent struggle stands this behemoth (another powerful word), towering over its dull neighbours with its utterly unique ‘-aos’.
  Even the word’s origins are poetic. Chaos was the name given to the first created being in Greek mythology: the dark, silent abyss from which all existence sprang forth.

And there you have it, a concise list of just a few of my favourite words in the English language.

So now, I’d like to hear from you, my dear followers.

Which words do you find aesthetically pleasing and why?

It has the words ‘noodle’ and ‘can’ in it, neither of which have anything to do with the actual definition of the word!

(This is me trying to get back into writing more personal posts)

In my opinion, holding hands is probably the most wonderful of all of the possible displays of affection there are.

There are more than 2,500 nerve endings in each hand, and I can think of no greater sensation for each of those nerve endings than to simply come into contact with another hand. From a single touch, a beautiful, intricately-carved bridge is formed; a connection that goes beyond words.

I suppose all human interaction could be simplified into an analogy of holding hands.

Sometimes we outstretch our hands to others (one of the biggest and scariest risks you can take, in my opinion), and that leaves an infinite amount of possibility as to what could happen.

They could simply refuse. It’s the easiest option, after all (that’s the main reason it can be so scary to even try).

And if events conspire in such a wonderful way as to have them actually grasp your hand in theirs, well, few things could be more wonderful. But that feeling is short-lived.

You come to realize how easily they could simply let go, or pull away. You come to realize that some hands are fighting arm wrestling matches in the guise of holding hands. You come to realize that sometimes fingers just slip, like a complex and seemingly-sturdy knot suddenly come undone. You come to realize that some hands just have better things to hold.

But the beauty of it all is that hands don’t always have to hold hands.

Hands can hold brushes, pens, instruments, chisels, and almost anything else; bare hands need not be empty. Granted, there are many times when such things don’t quite fill the void, but the truth is there isn’t much we can do about it, so why not make the best of what we have?

I suppose one last question I’d ask about the matter itself is: Is it worth it? Is it worth taking the risk to try to ‘hold hands’ (to stick with the analogy)?

And that’s a question I honestly don’t have an answer to. My opinion fluctuates from yes to no, and it has fluctuated quite wildly for, well, years.

So, as part of my attempt at returning into the habit of writing more personal posts like this one (as pretentious as it may seem to even think that any of you care very much), I’ll leave the final thought to you guys.

So, what do you think?

There’s something beautiful about a conversation. I’m not talking about when people talk, I’m talking about when people connect. It’s one of those things that simply cannot happen with more than one person at a time, or at least, not for me.

I’m not talking about those conversations that consist of jokes and laughter. I enjoy those, but the conversations I value are those that have meaning. The conversations I remember are those that have meaning. The conversations that truly shape me are those that have meaning.

What do I mean by a meaningful conversation? It’s quite simple, really. In the simplest of forms, it’s a conversation that makes another person become more than just another person. It’s a conversation that opens you to a new perspective, or helps you better understand your own. It’s a conversation that excites the part of you that lives in possibilities.

And why do I write about this all of a sudden? Simple. I had one such conversation today, and if I think about it, it really has been a while since I’ve had a real conversation with anyone. It was a conversation about stars and significance, about origami and catharsis, about waves and pain; about the little things and how they’re what really matter in the end.

I once heard that somewhere, and I suppose it does hold some truth to it.

But personally, I find that I can relate to this quote a lot more if I use my own personal idea of death.

You see, when most people think of death, they imagine something painful, something frightening, and generally something that you want to avoid for as long as possible.

When I consider death, however, (which I have spent a LOT of time considering, trust me) I try my best to look at death and see what I know about it for sure. And the only thing I know for certain about death, is that I know absolutely nothing about death.

Therefore, in this new light, death becomes a thing of curiosity, rather than fear. It intrigues me. It is the ultimate mystery, the biggest question, and it is a chance for our imagination to go wild with what it does so that we may somehow replace this gigantic question mark with whatever extraordinary explanation we can concoct. Concepts of ghosts, judgement, and reincarnation; notions of absolute nothingness, or absolute reality.

With this in mind, we can imagine that death may not be the moment of our greatest loss, but the moment of our greatest discovery, and I suppose it is true then, that life is quite simply a series of small discoveries.

Amidst the chaos,
Tranquility can always be found,
Amidst the static,
A sudden absence of sound,

Like a dove flying,
Within the storm,
A bane of fear,
A bringer of warmth.

I’ve re-tagged all of my contemplative/pretentious (it’s your choice) meanderings under ‘Think About It’, so if you want to read any of them, that’s where they’ll be.