Tempered Steel

The glass was transparent, filled three-fourths with water. The subtle curve of the meniscus caught light from above and glimmered. With my chin resting on the table, I observed her animated face magnified through the liquid. She sat across, wearing blue, with her jet-black locks breaking into waves, one layered over another brushing on her shoulders. She blinked those big scary eyes and moved her head from side-to-side. She was trying to make a point I suppose. Every once-in-a-while, her hands would shoot up, forming words in the air. Yes, she sure was saying something. But blame her peculiar nose, a tad-bit voluminous, and that curious stretch of lips; I felt all my attention being pulled as toward, making it difficult to spare any for the words those moving lips formed.

With time the skin over my chin started to feel numb under the weight of my head and started to sting. I sat upright and leaned on the back-rest. She smiled as if to acknowledge my change in posture while yet continuing with the monolog. I wondered how one smiles while talking. Aren’t the lips already busy in sounding the consonants, particularly the labials – ‘m’, ‘p’ and ‘b’. Possibly one times the smile to that portion of the speech when words do not include these. I felt amazed at how talented their brains need to, to be able to predict beforehand which part of their sentence is devoid of words containing those alphabets so that they may smile at that exact moment. Such an arduous strain on brains micro-circuitry. I blinked in awe of her this gift and tried to smile.

Tried to, but couldn’t. This is not the day I smile. It’s a sad sorry day. I broke my coffee mug. Despite the charming presence of her, in near proximity, the ache of the misfortune was too searing to wane. She had given me it. While some might argue the very same ‘she’ is sitting right across the table that seemed to hold a glass of water, two plates, two pairs of spoon, fork and knives, a box of tissues, and a promise of food that was yet to come. Now the latter half of the previous statement in this recital is beside the point, yes, you figured it right. I guess I put it there to shift attention from the unease the former half of the statement had caused within. Yes, the coffee-mug was given by her, but she was that ‘her’ no more. Time leaves indelible insignia of its passage, doesn’t it? Some desirable, while some not. Some tolerable, some not.

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Just then, there was a sudden moment of profound quiet. I saw that there were no more ripples in the water in the glass. Her lips had stopped to move as well. I said, ‘yes, I agree’. And she smiled.

Contrary to what you might think, no, this isn’t a failed marriage wherein we just indifferently tolerate the other. In fact, we are not even a couple. It is just that I have something going on. Something that is being a bother. And I can’t tell her that. As to why I can’t tell her, well, I don’t know. Though now I can think and try to come up with reasons in retrospect as to why I can’t tell her; but beforehand I don’t know what made me want to not say and keep it to self. Maybe it just didn’t occur to me to tell her about it. But then isn’t it how we are at times. Inexplicable to self. Not that that mystery can’t be unwoven. It’s just that it would rather be quite a burdensome bother to undertake. And it’s easier side-stepped.

While these philosophical counterpoints subsided inside my head, I noticed that her eyes were downcast and the smile that she had beamed before had turned smug, then sore, and finally sad. It’s incredible how the same stretch of lips could be made to portray such myriad different emotions. A mathematical impossibility if one may. But then, she did, and thus it isn’t an impossibility anymore, is it? So this is that point in the narrative wherein it becomes clear that I have been outstripped in my endeavor to outsmart her. Poor me. Well I don’t actually mean ‘poor me’, but inside my head, I could hear her quip ‘don’t wallow in your own self-pity’ at my that phrase; a nasty retort we had together once discovered in a comic strip. The distraction aside, I felt my heart miss a beat.

Funny that it begins with a series of missed beats, strained breaths and roiled emotions. And this same bunch recurs when you see your better half down and under. ‘better half’ having been used in a literal sense with not too much emphasis on the ‘your’ pronoun that did precede it. Though on a second take, much emphasis has indeed been put on the absence of emphasis on that possessive pronoun. Such a recursive turmoil language adds to the act of living. For what is unsaid is also as affecting as what is said.

I came clean and said, “I dropped that coffee mug you gave on that friendship day”. “The yellow one? The one with a black lid and café coffee day written as upon ?”. “Yes, the same. It fell and broke into a thousand shards of splintered ceramic.” “I knew I should have given you one made of tempered steel!”, and with that, she broke out into her characteristic peal of laughter. I again caught myself gazing at her peculiar nose, admiring, smiling, chuckling as it twitched as she paused for breath between laughs.

Yes, it’s inexplicable; this human contract with its inherent asymmetry of emotional exchange.  In part because we are humans, fallible, with a lifetime spent in cultivating behaviors that are a far cry from ideal. And in part because this portrayal is a consequence of the wistful imagination of a soul reflecting in solitude. Either way, how much harm can come by wishing ‘happy friendship day’, even if the only real aspect of that proposition is ‘day’. Someone said life is a comedy, written by a writer with a tendency to overindulge in the tragic. And given the superlative intellect (quirky smarts, handsomeness, and knightly chivalry) of this ‘someone’, we are bound to concede to his point. As to why his, and not her? Well, it’s apparent I am a guy ain’t it.

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Cheese-burst pizza, starry sky, and cogitative overflow

pizzaThe slice of pizza was dripping cheese. It’s buy-one-get-one-free at dominos today, thus this pact of momentary friendliness with this random stranger. You had walked into the campus eatery which has a dominos kiosk. It’s a lazy Saturday; the sun is dipping down the horizon, and your body aches from the bout of basketball from a moment before. You came alone, as you often find self, and while intently running the topping varieties and flavor-types against their stated price, you felt a gentle poke. Assuming it as just another strained muscle sighing, you ignore it and continue with your mental computation. The poke, a little more strong and lingering, recurs. As if to assuage the actomyosin fibers of the modest bulk in your right deltoid, you try to rub the region when long spindly fingers, soft, squishy, definitely feminine, get caught between your hand and your shoulder. You turn your long lugubrious post-match body to behold a pretty thing.

May the feminist readers not rise up in arms. The ‘pretty thing’ reference is not out of insensitive objectification, nor because of haughty demeaning arrogance. Rather, it’s just a gentle colloquial quip within, over a random fellow living ‘thing’, in plain purposeless assertion of the fact.

So returning to the narration, yes, she was pretty. Tall, svelte, with a healthy glow of soft nutmeg, her black locks sported what they call a layer-cut. Yeah, I have had ample feminine company in a once remote past when I was more socially involved to know what a layer-cut is. I am fond of its patterned break in symmetry. Her lips were moving as I was busy observing, admiring, and probably withholding a possible spike in heart rate that inevitably happens when a guy beholds a pretty girl; I know, petty biology and stuff. Breaking self from the trance, I tried to force focus on the words that those moving luscious lips were forming. As it started to make sense, though with a definite delay (blame the slowing of cogitation the palpitating heart had brought forth), it seemed she was suggesting we share the price and order a pizza, as we will then get another for free. Seemed a sane deal. I said sure, and  soon we found selves sharing two pizzas, both non-veg, and a bottle of coke at the open-air theatre that forms a comfortable retreat just beside to consume the sustenance, with a black starry sky forming the canopy.

No, it was no love at first sight. I have no faith in the concept of love. It’s an endearing artifice, an artifact of biological evolution, a lie if you may in plain simple terms. And also no, we didn’t have sex right after pizza. We were too full for some physical action. All we did was share a moment of our existence, and left carrying within us a little of the other. For, ideas communicated through conversations that get entrenched in memory accrue real physical change in one’s neural connectome. Put differently, while you are talking to someone, you are making change in their brain. Amazing isn’t it. And that is precisely what we did that night, making and breaking connections in the others brain.

people“I think it is a flawed premise to blame a guy as being superficial as because he likes a girl for her looks”, she said. Yes dear readers, it was the girl’s dialogue, and not this guy’s, as you might be bound to believe. While given the fact that she did have good looks and I did like her, her statement seems a motivated assertion well placed in context, patronizingly placed if to be put blunt and frank. But then, she followed her assertion with a reason that appealed. She said, “When you think about it, introspection is an illusion. While your like for certain things and dislike for some, your inclinations if you may, though totally real, your conscious consideration about the reason for those likes and dislikes needn’t be. And as it turns out, aren’t indeed. You might like an apple. But you do so because it smells good, tastes good, looks an alluring red, feels crunchy in texture, or just because of its oblong spheroid shape, is always a guess. Your stated reason for why you like an apple, needn’t be, and as it turns out, often quite isn’t, THE reason for your liking an apple. Now given that such introspective considerations are illusions, what wrong is in it to say you like a woman just because she looks good. Chances are, you like her for some reason else, but her looks is what you consciously think as to be the reason. Or rather, at the other extreme, you may think you like her because she is well-natured and open-minded, but your like stems from your inherent appreciation for her, let’s say, body odor. A totally sane contention wouldn’t you say.” And as if for dramatic effect, she smiled a broad beaming smile, and bit into her pizza spewing the cheese from within, a drop of which fell on her skirt. She wiped it with the tissue, and had a gulp of coke.

Beauty with brains is an enormously captivating company. But then, I did score in the top 0.1 percentile on the IQ scale. Her smarts gave me a high. And I couldn’t help myself joining in. “Your premise and the reason as for holds. But you oversaw a caveat in your chain of logic. One’s self-image. While the introspective reason for your inclinations may sure be an illusion, assuming you remain honest to self, your reason for those inclinations conjure your self-image. While your like for apples sure might be because it’s crunchy to chew, you think you like it because its nutritious and keeps doctor away. Thus, you build a self-image of prioritizing a rational reason motivated by prominence to nourishment over a petty feeble reason as about its crunchiness. In human terms, you think of yourself as a person who likes a woman because she is well-natured and open-minded, even if unknown to self the real reason might have been her body odor. So, your conscious image of self, which affects your decisions, is different. Thus, rather than neglecting conscious censuring as about the virtuosity of your reason for your likes and dislikes, you totally overseeing them as they might, and probably are untrue, and giving-in to primal instincts demotes your position as a civilized being. True that it’s a lie, this conscious censuring, but the lie consequents a good, your sense of self-respect. And this latter comes a long way in your making pro-active socially-conscious decisions.”

I was looking up at the stars as I went through my turn for monologue. This is the trouble with heavy arguments. To completely make sense as a stand alone assertion, one needs to quote the caveats and define the context, and that stretches it into a laborious monologue. But then, the argument that’s put out results to be robust. She knew it, and she knew that I knew that she knew it. She had been lying beside till then. She sat up, and leaned over, hiding the stars with her pretty face bordered by her locks, and her eyes glittered. I smiled an understanding smile. We understood the other. It’s not often to have someone understand your ideas. Yes, there is a lot of noise about people understanding you, as a person. But they forget that a person is but a bundle of ideas, notions, concepts and contentions. And to truly understand someone is to understand their thoughts. A means vital to this is to converse. Here, we had, and we did now get the other. She bent down and we kissed. Our kiss tasted of cheese. Can one ask for more in life.

handsAnd well, more did happen. About we not having sex right after the pizza, well I did not lie. Though I might have misled you. We did make love, though not ‘right after’. It had to wait till the break of dawn. We both went for a jog. Hot, sweaty, we had a bath and spent the greater part of next  morning in bed. After a nap through noon, we were sharing coffee in the eve again at the eatery, by the open-air theater when she quipped, “You know, your argument about conscious censuring despite the illusion of introspection, it has a fatal flaw. That of motivated reasoning. That is, reasoning is not a purely objective rational process. While possibilities can be conjured honestly, the process of annotating to them a probability of occurrence, is a vague step that can be quite easily biased by one’s motivation depending on personal qualms. Given we cannot divorce the human in us, our reasoning in vague terrains as in the case of introspection is quite often motivated toward the conclusion most appeasing to one. Thus, the censuring despite the illusion is again rigged as because of this motivated bias in reasoning.”

Well, one might argue that recital is too long to be a quip, but then it was well rounded and a resilient stand alone opus. I just had one statement in reply, that I did put across quite unceremoniously. I said, “Will you marry me?” And she, well, crinkled her eyes and burst out into a good-natured laugh. She looked into my eyes with her dark black pearls for eyes and asked, hopefully in mocking jest, “Why not, but pray what is the reason for this like as your might surmise?”

Loss of Innocence

mermaid-on-nova-scotia-beachThe roar of waves breaking against the shore set a continuous polyphonic chirrup in the air. The lone fictional being, our protagonist, sat against the grainy tickle of sand. Her eyes were pinned on the horizon, where the orange-yellow gleam of the rising sun had smeared the sky and sea in shades of red. Raman Effect, she quipped in cold abandon. She was troubled by insomnia, and had come to the shore to await the break of dawn. Now it was about time to leave. But she loathe to.

For a callous observer, it might seem the rapture of dawn with waves lulling in that peaceful serenade had her drawn to the scene, locked in the moment. And had the observer’s intuition been deeply colored by a massive dose of existential angst, he might opine that she sat there, jaded, complacent, hoping to distract self from the tedium of existence. But we are neither callous, nor troubled with wistful imagination. From the vantage point of an interested perspicacious onlooker, she was waiting. For what, we wouldn’t know, nor do we venture to guess. We doubt if she knew herself what it that she awaited was. Was it akin to that age-old itch we all bear, for something incredible to happen in life? Of note, this latter is a quip; not a surmise.

As she breathed the salted breeze, she imagined the molecules flowing in turbulent eddies through her air-passages to the lung alveoli, mixing with the blood gushing just across the surfactant-lined walls, in gurgling streams of pulmonary capillaries. This stream was then churned by the constant continuous pulsations of her dear heart, that still longed for someone she could lose herself into. No, love is not a necessity. Akin to God, it is only an endearing hypothesis. But the need for the same, given the frail fragile constitution of us humans, is very palpable and real. She blinked at her single relationship status. She could undo it in a blink. But to blink for someone any less than self, would be a regretful error she didn’t want to repeat.

With fingers digging into the sand beside, she clenched her palm into a gentle fist, feeling the coarse grittiness of sand rubbing against sand. The tactile sensation seemed to add poignancy to the reality of the grainy nature of the same; just as this façade of human realm with individuals, where inter-individual interactions add weight to our individual reality. She slowly undid her fist and the grains slid down in thin streams. The weightlessness of the act seemed surreal, simple, solemnifying.

She blinked the thought away. She abhorred this metaphysical. She was through with them. Life is fun, or rather, fun could be had in life. And fun is heartening. Thus, to indulge in what’s fun is what, and all, that counts. The pleasure of the senses, the thrill of suspense, the joy of forbearance, and that enticing allure of companionship and understanding, she thought one could be drunk on life. Drunk, in every sense, with all the senses drenched in the exuberance that life has to offer.

As it became light around, she began to notice people. A young man, rippled, jogged by the shoreline, breaking a sweat. He left shoeprints in his wake that formed little pools. Slowly, with the succession of waves, these pools got filled with sand and were erased. She noticed an elderly couple, walking, with the man holding a dog, a german shepherd on a long leash. His wife who probably had put on some weight since her youth, hobbled along, beside, two steps behind, stealing a glace once every while at the horizon, and her husband. If one looked carefully, one could see boats in the sea, far off-coast. Fishermen out in open waters, gathering their days catch.

This last aspect from this near idyllic scene nudged her, our protagonist, that it was time. She need leave, and go about with her day. She lowered her torso against the sand, and slithered in the wet watery coolness. She reached the shoreline, leaving behind an unbroken trail. Once completely immersed, she flicked her tail fin, undulating her body in graceful twirls, as she swam deeper into the sea, toward her watery abode, the mythical Atlantis, at the heart of ocean.

The unnatural nature of science

Professor Lewis Wolpert at home North London. February 2011.I recently read this book by the developmental biologist, Lewis Wolpert. It was originally published in 1992. At its core, the intent of the book was to explain why common people, the public, don’t ‘get’ science.

This is no review of the book. I only intend to bring to fore the ‘unnaturalness’ of the nature of science, as Wolpert put it. Consider a ball rolling down an incline onto a flat plane. It will roll a distance and stop. If the plane was absolutely smooth, with there being no friction, the ball would keep rolling for ever. But note that we haven’t had the opportunity to experience such frictionless surfaces in our day to day life. Thus our common sense, the set of thumb rules we have acquired quite unbeknown to self based on repeated experience with the reality known to us, finds it counterintuitive what Galileo put forth, and later Newton captured in his First law of motion, that uniform motion is the natural state of objects, aka, that ball would keep rolling.

This is the crux of the argument. Scientific explanations are essentially bound to invoke concepts from outside our daily dealings, and thus are fated to be counterintuitive, even absurd. This underlies the reluctance of the general populace to accept science. Stretching this to its logical extreme, Wolpert even argues that if something is explainable with commonsensical notions, then such explanations are not scientific; it’s not science. But to appreciate this, one would need to get into what he means by ‘science’, and, for that he has written that book. Hasn’t he!

Life, afar

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The double helical coil of life

DNA, encrypted

Simmers

the commensurable,

yet impenetrable essence

the Gestalt of all that’s live.

The maze in the brain

Neural networks, encoded

Taunts

the imposing façade of

irreducible complexity,

near chaotic, alive, conscious.

Though, it is

that iridescent black pebble

smooth, oblong

on the river bank

that fills me with a  longing

for a life, experienced, not observed.

Free Prose

It’s winter. More precisely, it is that annual quartet when the temperature dips, fog and dew sets in, sunlight becomes sparse, and people seem beefed up with their many layers of woolen upon. Now you might roll your eyes at the redundant verbalization of universal truths. ‘Dude, we all know that’s how winter is!’. But then there are caveats to that exasperated declaration. Winter’s not the same all around. For instance, in south of India, close to coast, winter is non-existent. In Chennai, a city I went for college, people don’t own sweaters or blankets, and are completely oblivious to the blowing of warm breath aka mock-smoke as the cheery young do elsewhere. And quite queerly, they get their rain while its winter elsewhere as due to the retreat of North-western monsoon.

Now this is not to be a prose with a hint of poetic serenade on the beauty and chill of wintery mornings. Nor is it a class in geography and seasonality of weather patterns. It is about a walk. No, not ‘The walk’ of Joseph Gordon Levitt, or it’s real live version Philippe Petit. It’s more de-glam and sober. It’s just me walking from a shopping complex back to my lab while munching on a bar of dark chocolate with quiet, dark and chill upon and around. If you are looking for thrills, well there are no zombies en route. Like I quipped before, it’s a sober account of an inconsequential banality.

winter 1My lower back ached. As while I took steps, keeping sure to keep the strides small and a slow cadence, a dull throbbing pain shot up in my left flank and seemed to radiate towards the lower spine. It was the squash the morning. The game had been a little more intense than usual. And the freeze of winter had slowed the joints. Thus the extra effort to move about on the court had put some strain on a bunch of muscles about the axial skeleton. And with each throb of pain came the very real sensation of the tangible presence of a flank, and a back, and a spine. Am no nihilist. But the human body, my mortal coil, taken for granted as my own, often seems like a silent shadow. Ever present, but one does not really feel as its presence. But this pain seemed to remind me every moment that ‘I have a back!’.

The road was quiet. Lit with occasional lamps. And the yellow smear of light in its near vicinity had a poetic charm. It is incredible how certain things are beautiful. How they capture your attention and seem to leave a gleam of heartening emotion that makes the moment seem significant, life worthwhile and existence non-trivial. ‘What a farce!’. Now that was an exclamation that escaped me without my conscious volition. A reflection of my deep seated beliefs I suppose. Beliefs based more on an understanding of life, a version I have come to conceive. It is queer how the same sight has varied mutually incompatible relevance while viewed from the eyes of different people. Occasionally, even by the same person at different time-points, in changed moods, with the ever accumulating baggage of experience added upon.

I crossed the western labs, the library plot, the coffee place and the gardens to come near the building that houses my lab. Inside, I run experiments. Experiments in biology. Trying to figure life. How it develops and functions. The lab’s lonely. But then a lonely space is where, in the quiet, one’s thoughts soar in the abstract and the intangible. Though I miss those days when I sat in my balcony, back home with coffee in hand and a book on my lap, gazing upon my pretty friend, her sweet face bent over her medical text, nibbling a pen, and trying to figure how to diagnose lupus. Life moves on. And memories remain. But what are memories but an imprint of past occurrences. Why do they carry such emotional pathos in addition to the details of the event. Or is it that the reason for the imprinting of the event was as due to its emotional relevance? If it is this latter, then how successful am I going to be to make an existence divorced of emotions, a concept I see as trivial, innate and unoriginal. Such pain it is to go against what you are, yet feel compelled to, because that is what you want of you. Such pain it is, indeed.

An Orange Fruit

images (5)A dewy morning of early spring, and with the break of dawn, the scented breeze from lands afar blew to dispel the night’s mist off the trees on the plain. As the blanket of wet whiteness dwindled, an orange, ripened into the fullness of Sun, round and resplendent, could be seen hanging on the tree at the very heart of the plain.

The orange was as brightly orange as any orange could ever be. Spilling with the exuberance of youth, it was lulling in the breeze and making merry. From its site up on the tree, it could gaze above the lush green of the canopy, expanding over vast expanse, the very sight of prosperity, with its spotting of buds, flowers and fruits in their multivariate shades and shadows. The orange was as happy as anyone could, consumed in its own sweet pulp, radiant, ripe, it was living a life of beauty.

Pity all happy stories need come to an end, and so did that of the orange fruit. It was done on the tree and the stalk was sticking by its last bit of might. One gush and pluck! split the pedicle of the fruit leaving it under the guardianship of gravity.

The orange, blinked, tearful that its spot over above the canopy was gone. The misty morns, the breezy noon, the eve as the Sun slid behind the hills spewing red, yellow and orange over the horizon, and the quiet peaceful nights when under the shade of the moon, it would rest and dream, they where all to be had no more. It was to lose all these beauties it got to savour up above.

As its mind fretted, fidgeting over its lost privileges, the descent to the ground propelled by the interminable laws of gravity continued. As the ground came to sight, the smell of mud, wet, musky, steamed up into the air around. Air was rushing up past it, mirroring its fall down. The sky with its vast blueness and a touch of white from clouds, the lush lavish green of the canopy, they went further and further away. The brown of the branches with swirls of green from the many creeping guest on them surrounded the orange, as it was going down, down to the ground.

The smell of musk set fear thunder through the heart of the fruit. It meant for it, decay. It now could see its fate, and it realised with pain its purpose. It carried within it’s self, seeds of life which it was to nourish, at its own cost. It was to let self be destroyed, degraded by the zymes the seed may secrete, aided by the warm moist environ down there in the mud and the multitudinous miniscule unlikely mates. It was to slowly dissolve, letting its beauty give way to fluid, its exuberance give way to nutrients, and its youth give way to death for the sake of another life. It was to soon disappear from existence, to finish its short sweet journey with an ending stroke of decay and death.

It wondered first with pain, then with remorse at the similar fate of the countless oranges still lulling up in the breeze some looking down at it with pity, some with sympathy and some completely oblivious to its end. It felt bitter at being used, at falling into the ploy of this pointless game called life. How just is it to cause a death to bring about a birth?! It was to end to nourish another beginning, and if the whole purpose is just the beginning, then what point is there in the interim from the beginning to the end but a mindless meaningless preparation for the end so as to bring about another beginning?! Is the purpose of life ‘life’ itself, nothing more?!

It looked back at its days of youth, at its sweet pulp, its exuberant wine flowing in it and thought, what was it all about? What for? Was it a bribe to make the interim bearable so that it would play its part?!

The orange was nearing the ground through the fall. It could see the crystals of sand, with the mat of moss and a carpet of herbs blanketing the floor. It knew soon, very soon it would be gone, and from it will grow another orange tree, no, through it will grow another orange tree. And though it would be through it, it will not be the same as it. Lives’ end it thought, but life remains. Though no two lives’ are the same, they are always replaced. But in each life, there seem to be a pattern with three indelible truths, birth, procreation, death. It knew this, but what made it painful now is that it used to think there was more to life than just these. It wanted there to be meaning, significance, importance, but it could see there wasn’t.

There were days of happiness and moments of sorrow in its transient past. And when it looks again, it sees they were so innate. Anything that promoted its survival and seed-bearing made it happy and caused it to like it while that which threatened them brought pain and aversion. Scented breeze of the hills, oxygen, survival, happy. Delightful daylight after dawn, light, survival, happy. Countless pearls of rain breaking down from the sky, water, survival, happy. Mother’s stories of Gaya, the Goddess of Nature looking over, protection, actually the pretention of protection, survival, happy. Grandma’s stories of Zeus, the God of Everything, with lists of do’s and do not’s, presumption of survival, survival, happy. Grandpa’s stories of afterlife, imagination as to survival, survival, happy. Bees, birds and butterflies in their many colours and clamour, pollination, seed-bearing, happy. Come on now, give me a break said it!

It wondered if its search for meaning was of any meaning?! Was there indeed any meaning?! If someone even claims to have found, how to separate an appearance of meaning from meaning indeed?! How could anyone ever find meaning if there exists none in first case?!

While the orange had heard of stories that in the end there is peace, but it seems to be otherwise. Either they were lies, built on the promise that the dead won’t return to contest, or maybe it’s was a case apart, san the apparence, the pretension and the presumptions of lives’. Its view was that of the life. And though it could, it chose not to lighten its heart with lies many. For it thought, why need it aim for happiness, peace and significance? What makes the state san these feelings any less meaningful? When there is no meaning at all, what makes any state any less meaningful but for the personal preference?  Or is it really a personal preference, or a program as to preference fed inside since before birth or from after birth through social conditioning?!

And all it could see before was webs of questions, breaking paradigms, withering assumptions, it realised it had taken so many assumptions for granted. It hadn’t challenged then and took them for either the obvious or as the unquestionable truth. And the realisation of the folly, all added to the muddle, meddled with the fret in it as the orange finally hit the ground, paving self into the mud, spewing flecks of moss and moisture up into the air, and blurted in its last breath, ‘what the f***!