The Long Road

By Rami Abdo

I turned around for a moment and gazed at my house in the distance. It had been such a long time since I took a walk, a simple stroll around the neighbourhood using my own two legs. There was no destination, no goal, it was simply a walk. My mind’s usually preoccupied with meaningless pursuits while behind a wheel. Dodging potential accidents, hate-mongering with the other road-rage filled drivers, making crucial decisions about the route I should or shouldn’t take. Walking doesn’t bully me in that way.

I also notice more things when I choose not to drive, the details in the little things that whiz past me while speeding across the main roads: The aroma of trees, the elaborate cracks in the walls of houses, the sounds passersby make as you glide past them. They are all important in some way, and ignoring them in my day to day journeys while I fuss about ‘bigger’ worries are a perfect metaphor for the way I sometimes become in my journey of life. I worry and muse over issues like money and my future plans, yet all around me I am surrounded by beauty in many shapes and sizes, beauty that offers itself to me on a silver platter. All I need to do is stop the world, reach out and pluck its succulent fruit.

How do I stop the world? I consciously and physically stop what I’m doing at any given moment, take the time to examine my surroundings with all my senses, and then I savour it, appreciate it, learn from it. What is this it? It is the realization that all the things around me are working together, interacting in a perfect way at that instant to create the circumstances I am currently in. It is the comprehension that everything around me is a living sentient being, constantly creating and destroying and forming new thoughts, new feelings, and new connections with itself in an ever-changing state of infinitesimal ecosystems existing inside slightly larger, more complex ones, and so on and so forth. To put it simply, it is understanding and valuing a moment for what it really is.

I faced a long stretch of empty road and decided to shut my eyes and see with my other senses. As soon as I did, I understood what it meant to feel with the body. At first I focused my will on hearing and I was swiftly bombarded with a flurry of activity that I normally wouldn’t even register: The rustle of dying leaves blowing across the pavement, the soft murmuring of the elderly as they sit on their front porch, gravel spraying from car tyres as they skid past.  I focused on each of these and they were heard as clear as if they occurred next to me.

As I concentrated my will on my sense of smell, I picked up on odours I usually ignore. The scent of freshly cut grass, the carbonic smoke of car emissions, even the heat baking the tar road was isolated in my nostrils as a unique identifiable smell.

I then became fully conscious of my body’s sense of touch. I felt the intricate network of my leg muscles flexing and relaxing, interacting with one another with every step I took. The wind caressed me gently as I moved against it. It swayed aside for me as I streamed past its flow, obedient to my shape and my movements. It separated and glided through my fingers, solidified once more on my palm and allowed me to grasp it as if the hilt of a sword. Then it flitted past and around me, resuming its former path and mission.

I opened my eyes and it was as if I could see for the first time in years. Colours were vibrant and contrasting, each exceptional with its own hue. My sight flowed through the landscape as a bird would glide down a hidden valley, on its own journey of discovery, picking out every new shape and every fresh movement. The trees swayed with the wind and the cars rolled with their momentum but I was stationary, immovable as the rock of the earth. I was invisible, a watcher of the machinations of the life around me, invincible to their touch.

As I sauntered down the road in my own world, I came across a pretty girl standing on the pavement, waiting for someone or something. I was bombarded with a multitude of elements all at once. The golden strands of her hair played in the breeze in perfect unison with the hem of her white skirt; they synchronized and composed together as an orchestra would. There was an auburn tinged aura emanating from her, a product of the rays of the setting sun reflecting off her pale skin. As I neared her, the subtle hint of sweet perfume approached my senses; it was a tender blend of vanilla and honeydew which intoxicated me under its spell. As I passed by, our eyes met briefly and in that fleeting moment time stood still. The energy in the air elevated me to new heights. The sides of her mouth arched into a smile and I smiled back. For that short instant it was as if we had known each other for years; a lifetime of questions were asked and answered and an infinite number of scenarios came to life and expired.

The spell was broken just as suddenly as it had woven itself into existence. Her father had pulled up with his car and picked her up. I looked back one last time and our eyes met once more, lingering and wondering for that which was...that which could have been. But as I strolled on down all I felt was wonder for what a simple walk down a long road can create: A series of short-lived moments that we can choose to either ignore or extract their enchanting core and enlighten ourselves with its beauty. 

Childhood Memories

By Rami Abdo

All the memories I have of my childhood are of me as a nine year old boy. Whenever I try to recall one, or when I’m telling a story of my distant past, I always put myself at around that age. Why is that? It’s as if I didn’t exist before I was nine. I just suddenly came to be one day, a complete nine year old boy. Even when I look at photos of myself as a baby or my first few years as a child, it’s as if I’m looking at a complete stranger.  Who is this weird human being staring back at me and why am I trying to relate to it. It’s a complete blank. This phenomenon is called ‘childhood amnesia’ and is common in all of us. The average earliest memory one can recall is usually around 3-4 years old. Even several years after that, it’s usually just bits and pieces that can be recollected as blurry images.

There are various theories out there that explain it. One plausible theory is that our lack of language skills at such an early age doesn’t allow us to put our memories in ‘writing’; i.e., the details of our memories  need to be associated with specific words and definitions that help us identify them and store them in our brains. This implies of course that our childhood memories are still intact, hidden in the recesses of our minds, we just don’t have the key to access them properly in a way we can understand. Some say that dreaming is a type of key to access this vault. Interpreting our dreams is a science in itself, but being able to tap into our earliest memories seems like a wonderful thing, putting together a puzzle of our lives one piece at a time. Another way is via hypnosis, which if done right, can help bring back repressed memories of a traumatized childhood to shed some light for people in need of psychological help.

A more biological approach talks about the structural design of a baby’s brain. The connections between the brain cells don’t start forming until after about a year, so until they do learn how to do it, a lot of memories are lost in the process. Basic survival is all the brain cares about at that point, so it doesn’t need the ability to store memories until much later. These connections are constantly re-wiring themselves as well, even in adulthood, so it’s possible the first ones have been ‘overwritten’ so many times that they are now nonexistent.

Sigmund Freud believed that from a psychoanalytical point of view, our memories of our childhood were so traumatic that we repressed them into our unconscious. Only when we become psychologically mature enough to handle them do they start returning. Most scientists nowadays have discredited this theory; however, it cannot be denied that our memories and our emotions are inescapably linked. If we experience a heightened emotional moment, we are more likely to clearly recall the circumstances around it.

I do remember the traumatic moments I had in my childhood as sort of flashbulb memories; Pictures that feel like low quality still shots from an old cinema reel. They come to me more as a feeling than anything else. I still think I was around nine years old for all of them, but more likely they are scattered around between the ages of three and nine. Of course if they are too traumatic, then a sort of defence mechanism activates and represses them into the dark depths of our minds, never to be brought out again (except in the climactic ending when you get a glimpse of your arch nemesis’s medallion which triggers a violent flashback of how he killed your parents one Tuesday evening, chaining into a series of events where you are raised by well hidden kung-fu monks that train you in the deadly martial arts even though you are a westerner).

They can be quite cathartic and revealing to bring back to the surface. I had a relatively normal childhood which I would love to relive: Trips to exotic countries with my family by my side, playing with the other neighbourhood kids in the streets of Cyprus (it was the safe eighties!), going on adventures and discovering new realms with my friends. But for some others, their past was a dark time which they just want to put behind them. They are more interested in their future, creating new memories, fixing the mistakes of their parents and changing the legacy of their nation. Who can blame them? In a way I do envy these people, because they only look forward, onto their next adventure, instead of digging into the past as I constantly do. I could certainly learn a thing or two from them. 

The Chosen

By Rami Abdo

 Zurri sat hunched across the fire with his clan brothers and sisters. They were all silent, waiting anxiously for what was to come. The light of the flames flickered and highlighted the myriad of Gruul tattoos and painted markings that littered every inch of his muscular body. He tightened his grip on his trusted wooden spear and glanced up at the night sky.

“The stars are clear this night,” he thought to himself. It is a good omen. Today would be a good day to die.

The flaps of the large tent behind him parted open and two figures emerged. Zurri and the others all instinctively stood up and stepped aside to give way. Gomeg the druid and Ravek the guildmage walked up to the fire, with the rest forming a semi-circle around them, audience to their imminent chants. Ravek raised his staff and recited the clan’s mantra. Zurri murmured it under his lips with the rest, allowing it to engulf him in a sense of clan pride. His clan was his home, his everything. He knew he would defend it with his life if he had to, and would gladly give his soul too if he could.

Ravek raised both his hands, ending the chant abruptly. “The ancients have spoken. Tonight a warrior amongst you will be chosen,” he declared, pausing to scan his audience. “The chosen one will climb the lava mountain and take to battle with the Uur-dragon that has terrorised our lands for far too long.” He pointed behind him at the lava streaked mountain in the distance. As if for effect, a small lava fracture at its peak burst outwards with menacing foretelling. The ground shook slightly with its distant roar, and then a silent moment ensued as the warriors shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

“Step forward each of you, into the fire’s light, so that I may gaze upon your faces,” Ravek continued.

One by one the warriors stepped up to the fire, standing in front of the mage and druid for a glancing moment until they were quickly waved away. When Zurri’s turn came, he confidently stepped forward, head held high. He returned the piercing stare of the wise mage, unflinching as he gazed intently into those dark pools of knowledge. Ravek lingered for a moment longer than usual and then waved him on.

After all the warriors had presented themselves, Ravek spoke. “Zurri! Step forward!”

Zurri’s heart leapt into his throat. There was instantly murmurs heard amongst the others; some were more a sigh of relief than anything. Zurri composed himself and stepped forward into the circle again, leaning on his spear, now more for support than anything else. His knees were weak but he held himself upright with pride, he was chosen and that was that. The test of his mettle as a warrior was finally here, and he wasn’t going to back down now.

“I see in your eyes that you are a brave soul, Zurri of the fire-heart clan,” Ravek whispered softly, as if only to him. “You will be a worthy opponent for the dragon.” He turned his view to address the rest. “Zurri is our chosen warrior!” he proclaimed loudly. “His fire-heart is strong and his spear sturdy! He will vanquish the Uur-dragon and bring us its bloodied fangs as his prize!”

The warriors of the tribe cheered for Zurri, invigorating him with positive energy. He had no doubt that the dragon would taste its own blood off his spear. He took a deep breath as Ravek dipped his fingers into a jar hanging from his belt and painted fresh markings on Zurri’s face. The guildmage then took off his necklace adorned with Gruul charms and placed it around Zurri’s neck. “May these protect you from the dragon’s wrath and give you safe passage home...or may they grant you a clean death in battle,” Ravek pronounced. Zurri bowed his head to him in respect.

Gomeg the druid spoke for the first time. “Take this potion I have concocted and drink it just before you face the dragon,” he said pulling out a gourd made of swine leather and handing it to Zurri. “It will give you great strength and valiant courage to face the beast and defeat it. It acts quickly, so do not linger too long after drinking it!” Zurri took the gourd and placed it in his satchel. He bowed his head once more to the two wise ones and then turned to bid his brothers and sisters farewell. He embraced each of them in turn. Some smiled for him and some cried for him, each recalling a fond memory of their chosen brother.

“Do not shed a tear for me my clansmen,” Zurri announced boldly, “I go now to victory or to death. Either way, I serve my clan well.” He gathered his supplies and began his long trek to the lava mountain, which loomed ominously in the distance. No one had ever ventured there and lived to tell the tale.

It took him several days to reach the foot of the mountain, and several days more to climb it. The path was treacherous, littered with jagged rocks and searing lava flows that burnt the skin off just from approaching near the red river. The dragon’s lair was at the top of the mountain, but all wildlife for leagues around had long disappeared, driven off by the threat of the winged beast. It had acquired a taste only for the flesh of men, so would regularly attack the tribe’s lands searching for its next meal. No one was safe anymore until the dragon was vanquished.

By the time he neared the summit’s peak, the lava mountain had taken its toll on him. He was blackened with soot and pockmarked with burns and scratches from head to toe. His whole body ached, his muscles sore with fatigue from hiking the steep climb of the rugged mountain paths. The ground shook from the constant lava flows below the surface, and there was a constant thrumming rumble that rattled his brain. He lay on a rock to catch his breath and scan the peak’s edges, searching for where the dragon would make its lair. He had spied from the distance spouts of flame shooting out from an area just below the peak, so he had headed for that general direction. He could see now that it was a large cave, its entrance vertically flat across the mountainside, impossible to reach by foot. As if on cue, another spout of flame discharged out of the cave entrance with roaring thunder. “That’s certainly not lava,” he thought to himself. He glanced up at the night sky and saw no stars. The ash and steam had covered them all. “No omen today,” he thought.

“DRAGONNNN!” he yelled with what strength he had left. “SHOW YOURSELF YOU SCAB SWINE!” Zuuri marvelled at his own brazen arrogance. However, whatever bravery he had inside him was instantly evaporated in the next moment. The rumbling had stopped. He realized now it was the dragon’s breathing. Two massively taloned claws edged their way out the sides of the entrance, followed by leathery wings, and finally a scaled bony head made of nightmares. The dragon had emerged.

It was large, larger than he thought. One of its claws spanned his entire body, and Zurri was tall for a man. As it emerged from its dwelling and reared to its full height, he realized it may as well have been a mountain itself. Bony spikes protruded from its immense skull and its red eyes emanated with a blazing radiance that pierced directly into his soul. Its body was as that of the mountain, a rock hard carapace veined with a network of glowing flame, as if its heart was the very sun itself. Fumes of ashen smoke arose from its fiery nostrils as it searched for that which interrupted its slumber. When it spied the puny human on the crevices below, it let out a chilling growl that resonated in Zurri’s very soul. His heart sank at the sight of the towering behemoth. His body failed him and he fell back onto the ground with base terror. He crawled backwards, whimpering with fear, until he hit his head on the rock he had been resting on. The jolt awakened his senses and reminded him of the potion that Gomeg had given him. He clambered for the gourd and pulled it out of his bag. The dragon was slowly crouching, preparing to leap upon its hapless prey.

“Gods of old...give me strength,” he worded, as he uncorked the potion and drank it all in a single swig. Its effects were instantaneous. A tingling sensation washed over him, numbing his body and his senses. The weariness of the last few days left his limbs entirely, and he leapt to his feet with strengthened might. He felt a renewed vigour in his heart and his spirit soared above the clouds. He sensed the power of his entire clan behind him, urging him on. He was invincible, untouchable. He raised his spear at the dragon and roared back defiantly, no longer afraid.

“FEAR ME NOW DRAGON! FEAR MY BLADE, FEAR MY SOUL, AND FEAR MY CLAN’S DEFIANCE!” Delirious with power and foaming at the mouth, Zurri launched himself at the beast with a triumphant cry, at the same time as the dragon pounced with its open maw. It caught his airborne body along the midriff with its snapping jaws. He felt his insides crush with the impact as its sharp fangs pierced his body. He felt no pain, the potion made sure of that. Spitting blood, he cursed its existence before plunging the spear deep into its fiery red eye. It screamed with pain, Zurri still impaled on its teeth. He laughed at the dragon, mocking it.

“You are a mindless beast,” he thought to himself, strangely calm at that moment of respite. “You shall never know the meaning of brotherhood, of nature’s true power...of self-sacrifice.” He coughed blood and uttered his last bellowing war cry as the dragon snapped its jaws shut.

Ravek and Gogem walked across the foot of the lava mountain. It had been many moons since Zurri had set out on his quest. A few days after he had left, they had seen flashes of fire and heard thunderous roars coming from the mountain peak. Since then, there was no sign of him...or the Uur-dragon for many days.

As they rounded the mountain to its far side, they came across a welcome sight. The dragon was slumped on a protruding cliff some way up, stone dead. It had petrified, as lava dragons do after they die, their inner-fire long extinguished. Only a faint glimmer remained, its heart, which never fades.

“The poison worked,” Gogem the druid shouted triumphantly.

“Yes, and so did its delivery method,” Ravek uttered sadly. “Zurri offered a noble sacrifice for his clan. The greatest he could ever give.”

“I made sure that his last moments on this earth were spent well,” Gogem said as he recalled the ingredients of his concoction. “We shall feast on boar tonight in his name, and burn the dragon’s heart in his honour. He has made the fire-heart clan proud.”

On the Vitalities of a Critical Moment

By Rami Abdo

A critical moment is one such that it entails a point in time where a possible ‘effect’ to take place does so purely and only by and because of the means which lies within your own possession, and according to your own judgment and decision. A failure to act upon the cause, and thus create the ‘effect’, leads irreversibly to the failure and passing of that said critical moment. Take note that it is another matter if a delay or hesitation on your part causes ‘the passing’, and if you then, at a later point, decide to act / choose on the specifications of the lost moment, because in actuality you are acting / choosing on a completely new critical moment, with rules alter to those of the previous moment which has been lost in time due to that delay / hesitation.

Exemplifying the definition certainly requires taking the classical examples of critical moments, namely those of the ‘once in a lifetime career opportunity’ when one is handed the ‘perfect job’ on a silver platter and the other being the males/females only chance of securing a romantic relationship (possibly the most passionate of their lives) by making ‘the’ move on the male/female of their dreams. Let’s take each in its own format for lucidity and colourful literal illustration.

Concerning the former, the said person is currently working desperately to secure financial troubles. It is needless to expound further on what these may be, for in this day and age these troubles can be vampiric and destructive, to say the least, so let’s leave it at that. Continuing, the person is holding (barely) a minimum wage job in a minimum-size facility, dreading the brain-cell-melting routine of work as he/she only survives due to the increasingly overwhelming weekly sensation that after every five weekdays there is a weekend. The only substance that keeps this person alive is family, relatives, and home, which is where the heart is of course. And thus the routine is only broken by occasional family picnics, holidays and gossip, which as any quick-witted reader would notice, becomes a routine in itself.

Then one day, as the person mulls over a wasted life, a letter arrives from a global company from a global city, offering a global career opportunity with a global salary and global perks to boot. Hence a critical moment has shone upon said person. It is now within their own choosing, (here enters the tormenting soul-ripping sleepless nights of indecision), on whether to pass up the offer with an unsure wave of the hand and an even more-so unsure comment such as; “oh, its not for me, all that big city life, all that adjusting”, or to violently pack their possessions, spouse, kids and family dog into every crevice of their station wagon and ride of into the new beginning, without so much as a “goodbye” to their milkman (door-to-door milkmen are an extinct species in global cities). The said person establishes themselves into a prominent position, purchases all they ever wanted in life (assuming it can be bought), and moves up at least two notches in Maslows ‘Heirarchy of needs pyramid’, which they learnt so well in college and finally put to good use. The person praises themselves for snatching life by the…(insert whatever you feel is appropriate) and lives as their dreams wanted them to live.  

Or will this drastic change inevitably corrupt their once simple hearts, break up their families and leave them to rot in their single-room condos with their fat paychecks that they have no idea what to do with (except pay a substantial chunk to alimony and child support). It is those moments when they reflect back at that critical moment, when said person was clutching tightly to that letter sent by global corporation from global city, and said person wishes he/she had shred said letter into a thousand particles and sent them burning into the fiery pits from whence they came, instead of assuming that any life other than theirs would be better.

The latter scenario certainly fits into a more serendipitous, Hollywoody movie, happy-ending kind of moment, but since this is the real world: brutal, heart-wrenching regret will (regretfully) take the place of happy endings that we so often see. Just to set the settings on the movie-ending scene, what usually happens is the hero / heroine finds the perfect lover somewhere in the beginning of the movie, they prove their love somewhere midway, only to break apart because of:  infidelity / lies about the past / evil mutated bad guy kidnapping one of them. There usually follows a time of sadness (with soppy music to boot) where the lonesome hero / heroine reflect on all the good times they had together while walking head-down along a beach in the sunset. At this point near the ending, they realize that their love for each other is too strong to be cracked over a few insignificant differences (or the evil baddy is annihilated in some gruesome manner), resulting with the two passionately hugging and kissing at the airport when one was about to leave the country for good before the other decided to race in time to stop the plane departing (what ever happens to all that airport traffic??).

That was a Hollywood critical moment as far as lost loves are concerned. In real life it is much more delicate than that, so delicate in fact, that most of the times we hardly notice a critical moment has come and gone, setting of a chain reaction that could mean the end of a possibly happily-ever-after relationship, sometimes even before it begins! To state an example, let me use a man as the subject, only because it is usually expected of the man to do the first move (a notion I don’t approve of but what the hell, that’s wholly another matter). The man is trotting along a busy shopping street, minding his own business, when he accidentally bumps into a woman coming around the corner, spilling the contents of her shopping bag. With apologetic smiles he offers to help, and in the process discovers from the spilt items some common hobby / interest he shares with the woman. This could be anything from an album of the Beatles to diving gear or matchbox cars.

Before he realizes it he has begun a sporadic conversation with this woman who he is finding increasingly attractive (and vice versa) by the nanosecond. They both talk to each other for ten minutes as if they are perfectly suitable for each other (and perhaps they are, isn’t that the point), laughing sincerely at one another’s jokes and finding more and more areas of common interest. Then it happens. They both run out of things to say because they are either too nervous or not close enough (yet) to expand further into more intimate subjects. The woman’s eyes dart from her bag to the end of the street, where her car is parked. The man shuffles nervously, sweating profusely, unable to look at any object higher than his fidgety feet. Inevitably, this is what usually ensues: Both vaguely comment, at the same time, something in the lines of;  / “so anyway I gotta go” / “well I’ll see you around”  / “meters gonna run out for my parked car” while both point randomly in opposite directions. With one last moment of hesitation to be the only memory of their ten-minute relationship, they reluctantly part their ways, both having yearned for the same thing but both too shy to grasp it. Of course, to add further spice to the drama, the man looks back when he’s ten meters away but views only her back, and she does the very same thing a moment later, after he’d already turned back disappointed and continued walking away. They never see each other again, and the critical moment is gone. What often follows such lost moments is the man tearing his hair out as he expels his mournful regret to anyone who would listen on how he let what possibly could have been the future mother of his children get away from his clutches, purely on the (now seemingly idiotic) grounds of being too shy to ask for her number or to offer to continue the conversation at a café somewhere. She too will feel the loss, lamenting to her friends on what could have been, and maybe even bang her head a few times for bowing down to the shallow notion that he was supposed to make the first move, irrevocably suffering as much as he will.

The only consolation to a lost critical moment is the resolute guarantee from the subject of the losing end that he/she has learned their lesson and will never let it ever happen again as long as they live. To this I say, that it is true, as humans we have the capacity to learn from our mistakes, but nevertheless we seem to repeat them, merely owing to the sake of clarity for our fickle assurance. It is a condition akin to a mongrel which, on going to cross the street, gets run over and breaks a leg. Then, unsure on whether it was the car, the street, or its clouded imagination that attributed to its leg currently protruding at an awkward angle, proceeds to make sure by crossing a different street, and predictably getting another leg broken. Now it is sure it’s not the street, for it had just crossed a different street, but is still left flummoxed over whether it is the car or it’s imagination to blame. And so, when the conditions are ripe once more, it cannot help but walk (or more likely crawl) into a street once more, whereupon with the squeal of tires and the crack of bone it is now positive that the car is the cause of all these limb-dentations. But by then of course it is too late.

From Child to Adult

By Rami Abdo

I’m not going to sit here and pretend I have even the remotest inkling of knowledge on the fundamentals of raising a child in this day and age. It is in fact a huge task to undertake, especially for blue-collar parents working full time jobs with barely enough wages in this crisis to cover their own needs much less a totally dependent third person. For single parents it’s even tougher; they have to carry out the lion’s share of the overwhelming duties ahead without the emotional and physical support of a partner by their side. I tip my hat off to them and in no way strive to demean their choices. I’m merely broaching the subject from a different angle, so humour me for a moment as I divulge into a philosophical debate.

Reading Carlos Castaneda during my impressionable years opened my eyes to the infinite horizons of reality and left my mind staggering at the truths I uncovered based on his views on existence. One of these harsh ‘realities’ I came face to face with was his inescapable dilemma on the concept of raising a child. Here was a free thinker, his mind opened to the stars and beyond by the teachings of Don Juan Matus, a man of knowledge, caught between his basic instinct to pass on his legacy to his offspring and his unwillingness to cage a human being with the conditioning of Parenthood. This trap he was referring to is unavoidable in every sense of the word. In order to raise a child, even in the simplest of settings, you must teach him/her how to survive, how to function in society, how to behave, what is right and wrong, what to believe in, etc...The list is endless. That means the child must be conditioned, or should I say programmed, from the start of their life until they are old enough to potentially break free from these shackles placed on their mind and have an independent thought that is not marred by all these past influences.

I’m not blasting specific methods used by parents worldwide on how they raise their children. 

I’m suggesting that whatever way is used, it will always be wrong. There is no right way because no matter what methods are implemented, raising a child means exerting our influence, our rules, and our beliefs on another impressionable human being that doesn’t know any better. He or she has been moulded to believe in certain mannerisms, religions, acceptable behaviour and other such ideas that are as difficult to erase from the mind as trying to forget how to count. The damage has been done and even the most rigorous scrubbing will still leave a faint stain on the brain.

Even if the most well meaning parents raised their child to be the kindest, most loving human being on the planet, it still means they have influenced that person to become that way through their teachings. Did they ask their one day old baby if he or she wanted to grow up to become this person? Obviously not.  But we cannot just give a child complete freedom as soon as they are born so that we wouldn’t influence their mental processes. Not only does modern society not allow that, but we would also be endangering the child’s life.  Parents just have to start making decisions for their baby, as best as they could according to their choices and their upbringing. If you think about it, we are trapped in this vicious cycle where we transfer the bugs acquired from our upbringing onto our offspring, either directly or indirectly. Those stains will always be there in some way or the other.

However, there is a silver lining to every cloud. When we are old enough, and our minds open up to the possibilities of the world and what it has to offer us, we can slowly begin erasing the markings of our parents and start drawing our own. It is a difficult thing to wipe out 18 years of training; the brain is not a textbook and there is no tool good enough to erase these writings completely. But Castaneda himself said: “We hardly ever realize that we can cut anything out of our lives, anytime, in the blink of an eye.” if we detach enough from the limits that our minds create, if we accept the fact that everything we ever know and believe in was stamped in there from before, then we can fully perceive this statement as true and use its implicit power to change ourselves in any way we see fit.

 To reject this notion means to reject our very freedom, the freedom to make our own choice on what kind of an adult we want to become.  Our parents relinquish the reigns of responsibility to us when we mature to adulthood, but instead of accepting them with open arms, we pass them on to other bodies of domination because we fear the implications of having to make real choices. We fear change and we fear the unknown, so we hold onto our past which makes us feel safe and secure. But while we latch on desperately to our memories and our old ways, the world around us is moving on, reforming and ageing and ignoring us for the most part.

Unfortunately, it usually takes a major life-changing moment for us to open our eyes to the inevitable realization that we no longer want to be the person we were groomed to be. Being able to shape ourselves into figures of our own choosing is one of the last freedoms we still possess. Buy only if we accept that before nationalities, before religions, before races, before anything else, we are human, and the saddest thing is to live and die not knowing that.

What Controls the world?

Most would say that clearly money is the great instigator, the driving force that controls the gears of the world. There are a select few people in this world who are ambitious and persevering enough to make the pursuit of power their life goal. The rush that comes with gaining wealth is enough to drive humans to act beyond reason in their quest for supremacy, and what else but money can help this quest be attained. These select few megalomaniacs have used this tool to dominate and rule the world since the beginning of time; From Alexander the great conquering most of the known world to Bill Gates and Steve Jobs taking over the technology race. The era progresses and the battlefield changes, but the root reasons stay the same. With this power they subdued the masses and kept them in check, whether it was by the lash of the whip or by virtue of brainwashing.

But people are certainly not sheep; though sometimes do follow charismatic shepherds without question. There needs to be a medium of control, some ideology to keep the masses from revolting and feeling dominated; the veil behind the leash so they say. The first medium to do so was probably theism. The conjuring and worship of a God or Gods has been used to instil fear in the hearts of the common populace since the beginning of time. The Celtics, for example, were a courageous race that feared almost nothing; their greatest dread was that the sky would fall on their heads. An idea that we would openly mock nowadays, but I would consider not too farfetched compared to some of our outlandish customs today. The ancient Greeks are another classic example. Their vast mythology is crammed full with tales of some mortal or the other upsetting one of the Gods and incurring their wrath upon their poor souls. No doubt these tales were based on some of the real fears that existed then, making sure the Gods were worshiped and honoured accordingly, but mostly devised by the rulers of the time to subjugate the masses.

The next medium to come was religion. As paganism was slowly rooted out and converted by missionaries, people became united with a common faith. With religion came a way of life, guidelines on what was right and wrong, how to pray for miracles, and inevitably how to reach heaven. Driven by the need for something to believe in and a fear of the afterlife, religion swept through the lands like wildfire and controlled the masses in ways unprecedented. Of course money had to play a part in it, as it does in everything else. Soon, religion was used as a medium for the power struggle, breeding holy wars, witch hunts, and sins that could be forgiven for the right price.

At the turn of the 21^st century, the world globalized itself with the technology boom and became more informed, leaving religion to spread itself thin. More and more people turn away from the old ways and find solace in other beliefs more suited to the capitalist driven societies we have today. And so the immortal megalomaniacs look for other means to continue their reign of domination. They found these in law, politics, banking, and other modern-day giants. At the centre of these giants, is as always, money.

The opposed view is not that much more heartening to think about. It involves the individual human, the single component of the mass, a tiny puzzle-piece of the world-jigsaw, which didn’t just enter planet earth ready with an economy and banks in every corner. Mankind got the lucky draw and evolved to become the smartest of all animals, (although dolphins might have a say in this). Though full of intelligence, possessing the know how to build entire cities, humans are still of flesh and blood, animals to the core, without exception. This core is run by basic instincts, necessary for survival, and one of the basest of these instincts is the drive for sex. We can see this in the design of the human body, tailor made for the gathering of food, the survival of hardships, and for breeding to ensure their legacy and the legacy of the human race continues on.

If we didn’t have this drive to constantly find a suitable partner to procreate with, then the human race would have died out a long time ago. Therefore it is necessary by natural design that the drive for sex stay strong, no matter how civilized and controlled we claim to be in the modern age. Behind all our fashionable clothes, our social norms and laws, our ideologies, lies an animal with its basic instincts suppressed, where they occasionally emerge in alternative forms. In the past, when a man desired a woman, he would simply bash her over the head with his club and take her back to his cave (metaphorically speaking). Years later, we have managed to twist our mating rituals and sexual education into an intricately complex web of rules and norms that serve to bewilder us more rather than help us understand and express our feelings of desire as we grow. Unravelling this web is a full time job in itself and can affect many major decisions an individual makes in their lifetime, from getting married to moving countries.

I can hypothesise that, short of the basic necessities of food and shelter, the desire for sex is the direct or indirect effect of every cause, the consequence of every action, the decider for every decision. Money is craved, that I consent to, but in my theory only because wealth can ultimately lead to sex. If you make a hypothetical offer to a typical man to choose between one night of sex with a beautiful woman and a bar of gold, nine times out of ten he would choose the gold. If you ask the same man whether he would be willing to forever relinquish any form of sex for a hundred bars of gold, nine times out of ten he would choose not to. In the overall view of things, man plainly needs sex more than money. Ask a criminal released from jail, a soldier back from war, or a monk who revoked his vow of celibacy.

In conclusion, I can see there is a connection between the two opposing views, one that places money and sex in a hierarchy, depending on the point of view. The Power-hungry view would place money above sex, stating that the ambition for wealth and power rules the world. The Animalistic view would place sex above money, because it drives people’s basic instincts and ultimately governs most of our actions. Either view seems plausible depending on how we define the world. If it’s seen as a single whole made of countries and nations, then money logically runs its gears. But if it’s seen as the sum of the smallest parts, consisting of individuals with feelings and instincts, then the drive for sex clearly dominates our lives. Either way, It’s best not to lose too much sleep on this age old debate. It leaves a dryly pessimistic outlook on life and we have better things to do than ponder on it all day long; such as earn some money and flirt with that cute girl/guy across the bar.  

Can something exist without being perceived?

This brings into mind the age-old expression: "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" In a purely scientific point of view, of course the tree does exist even if there is no one around to see or hear it. Its mass is still there even if it has never been seen by any human being, and the sound it made when it fell is a ‘hearable’ noise that could have been sensed. However if we are to take a more philosophical approach, one can say that for something to exist to a human being, it has to have been perceived by at least one of the senses of that human. The reasoning behind this is that the definition of existence can be debatably argued in many ways. It can be seen more as a set of ideas than a simple black and white set of rules.

For example, can we base the existence of something purely from reading or hearing about it on TV or the internet? I have never seen the Amazon River with my own eyes; I have only seen pictures of it and heard accounts of its existence. Does that mean it doesn’t exist in my reality until I witness it in the flesh, so to speak?

In a similar sense, does something have to be physically real for it to exist? Laws and rules are real, yet they cannot be touched except on the paper they were written on. Technically speaking, a law is an idea, which means it came into existence as soon as it was thought of. The same thing can be said of a painting. If an artist thinks of a painting, does he/she have to paint it for it to become real, or is its conceptualization enough to give it existence?