Causality - 1, God - 0.

Is it possible to adopt a non-linear stance on life? Is it possible to satiate oneself with personal feelings entirely, and go so far as to distance oneself from the socio-cultural aesthetic without being egotistical, conceited or bashful? I do not know whether any branch of popular philosophy or epistemology delineates a set of examples that could bring these principles forth as external manifestations in attitude, ideology and conversational patterns. Most of our cultural, economic and sexual organizations follow a set of rules - policy/protocol, if you will - which, if deviated from, could lead to one being cut out from the overall picture in part or in totality. When I speak about this Overall Picture, I refer to the status society accords an individual on the basis of him establishing, following or digressing from the rules.

The human race, says the Pope, cannot be trusted to do the right thing in times of doubt and/or pain. Then, he says, we should turn our eyes towards the heavens and allow ourselves to be subjugated to God's will. One is tempted to ask - what then, is God's will? I looked it up and came across a slew of the basest metaphors, that didn't quite allow me to empathize with the whole concept. It is suggested that the Lord had plans for the human race even before Creation. So, that would mean any change in the human consciousness - individual/collective - was preplanned and willed. This belief troubled me, ans still continues to do so. In a broader, simpler context, that would mean any man could get away with murder. In a courtroom he could insinuate that God willed the victim to die. That, to me at least, is philosophical sacrilege. It is the equivalent of a criminal reading out his Miranda rights to Justice itself. Perhaps, religion is the opiate of the masses, perhaps it isn't. Who knows? All these taxonomic variations of religion and philosophy just leave me knowing less than I did in the first place.

Atmosfear.

The truth is palpable. And, my condition is pitiable. Well,almost. I am trapped on an island. I have friends - they never fail to remind me of their existence, I have the approval of the fairer sex - I can enter their bodies at will, yet I have nothing. I'm not lonesome,no. As for boredom, there is none. If there was boredom, then it would be understandable, at least. I have always found comfort in the company of solitude. Life is too short to be willed away like this. If there is an all-encompassing Truth, then this Truth can be broached by understanding oneself. Or inasmuch as the mind can understand its own involuted self. There is much to be uncovered. There is much to be confused about. I can chip my fingernails on the subject, but I can rest happy knowing that my fellow man has taken the effort to solidify his investment in himself. As long as ignorance remains a point-of-view, there will be arguments, but no fruitful discussions. I prod myself continually, hoping to elicit some response to the sadness I find myself facing. I find none.

I never quite understand why society is so notoriously straitlaced in matters of sex. Aren't the biological implications of sexual happiness reason enough to be satisfied? When Society turns its cold, unappreciative eyes on sexuality with malevolence, I'm confused. Aren't bedrooms part of society's mainframe? As if semen is pus, and ovulation is liquid irony. Why do you shift so uneasily in your chairs when the talking heads on television tell you they had had oral sex done on them by other talking heads? It is a part of life. I may be young and bloodless, but I know that you cannot set limitations on what you deem as vulgar when you yourself extrapolate that vulgarity to your sex lives. That is why moral policing is stupid. People will derive pleasure from their own perversity. It's always too late when the youth come to terms with puberty. You can't put your finger on one thing and say,'This is it. I have found the Mother Lode'. I am seventeen. Pubescence brought about changes in me, yes. When I see those changes as having a personal quality, I understand. Because they are a extension of what principally constitutes my sexuality. When you force me to acknowledge what's right - contextually or otherwise - I will have a hard time swallowing your advice because for me, the parameters are different. I draw the line on the slate a little bit thicker than most others. So, all I can do is wait for morality to come to me, not the reverse.

I look up at the starry skies and I find peace in the colossal emptiness. Maybe, in the distance, I can sense the cores of white dwarves and red giants as they burn hydrogen to helium. The arrangement of atoms differs, the up-quark meets the down-quark. The conductors hands flail wildly as he falls from the stage, to land in a heap among the cellists. The crowd finds its feet. And there is an eerie silence as the conductor is carried away by the paramedics.

Strained Emotion - Overture.

Ladies and gentlemen, tonight, I will be your Bruce Banner. Today, the gamma rays will be singing for you. He came again today. This time, I silenced him by raising a weary hand. I am getting stronger. I don't think it's the therapy. It was only a month ago that I woke up in a cold sweat, in the stairwell of my school in the middle of the night,with no idea as to how and why I was there. My dreams are getting darker. Or what Epicureans would call Dark. I'm glad I found my Pericles. I dream of huge, unending stone walls. My hands feel the cold stone. Then, through an opening on the roof, I see the moonlight illuminate a figure on the ledge above me. He is dressed in a blue shirt, open at the collar. I can see that he is muscular, because of the bulge in his forearms. He looks at me. I can see that he is handsome, almost reminding me of Marlon, but just then, he smiles. It's a cold smile, and it leaves me shivering. He tells me he is me. I stare uncomprehendingly. He tells me I'm weak. In need of a brew. His potent blend. I wake up. It's a dream. Relax. A bad case of nerves, I tell myself. I smile cheerlessly.
I have discovered a side of me that's not quite well-off. It looks inviting. But is not. Go away, Tartar.
I sit upon the cold, sequined chair. The shrink twirls his pen around his finger as he looks at me, and enquires after the progress of his patient. I'm much less defiant now. I feel a strange calm come over me, like it does when I'm debating or when I'm emceeing. He pushes his gold-lane spectacles further up his nose, and adjusts his wiry frame to sit more comfortably. I imagine his face contorting as he makes love to his wife. Does he ask her how far along is she? Does he order her to scream his name out loud? Does he come inside her? The thought is disturbing, and I ignore it. All I want to do is to go home, curl up on my bean-bag, and listen to Jimmy Page caressing his guitar with his finger, or watch Chris Gayle swing his willow or turn the page of yet another Kafkan novel. He tells me whether I'm taking my medication. I answer in the affirmative. I look away. I mumble 'Bathroom Break' and excuse myself. I walk mindlessly, and catch a glimpse of my face in the flyblown mirror. I look tired, but I can see that smirking existentialist under the surface, chortling at my inability to live up to my expectations of myself. Why do I not feel? No. No. No.