Shiverfish

Well somehow, and barely, I am still around. I have been stuck in unrivalled depression these last couple months, but I think I am ready to do something about it now. Or at least try.

Ridicule me as you want, but I previously said I have never been involved in any kind of romantic relationship. I still have yet to feel the soft touch of a girl’s hands in my own or the warm embrace of their arms around me. Whether these phenomena even exist, I can only project based on expectations observed from others’ experiences.

So after my documented failures with a certain girl (go look up in my previous blogs if you’re curious), there was no turbulent emotional distress. My reaction was subdued. Looking back, it may have been my hopes that she might change her mind after a sufficient amount of time. The school term started again in September and we once again met in class, and I got to see her four times a week. I always looked forward to our encounters. I was well aware of the importance of not appearing too needy.

We got along well as friends as before. But as the weeks passed, I was constantly painfully reminded that her social life beyond the classroom was strictly to my exclusion. It seemed she had become very close friends with two other girls in the same circle of acquaintances, one which I may once have been part of, but evidently no longer. My master eavesdropping skills could register their sharing of personal thoughts and activities. I had great apprehension in trying to jump my way into part of their conversation, lest I betray my creepy stalkerish ways. Each time I longed for an invitation to participate, but it hurt when it never came.

Then I played a certain game called Braid. *Spoilers for Braid* Since the game is short I don’t think people will mind. The finale of the game when Tim’s rescue was reversed into his chase instead had a strong impact on me. Maybe I, like Tim, was just too obsessive over this girl. *End Spoilers*

Perhaps in another context, this undying devotion might be respectable, the golden attributes of faithfulness and affection. But it looks like that in my story, they are the qualities of the stalkerish antagonist. The time for me to let go has long been overdue. Now this is only one of the several factors that have been weighing me down, but is certainly one with the most emotional dimension to it.

It may seem silly to you that this life noob has taken so long to figure this out, to be so heavily affected by this single girl. In another context, it could have been the right approach. I can defend my lack of dating experimentation to my philosophy of one shot, one kill. I really have no interest in dating anyone without serious long term relationship viability and success. Thus I keep my standards high, and am not easily impressed or attracted to a potential. So this time I have poured all my hopes into a one-sided investment... I guess it’s time to salvage the remnants of this fallacy.

I witnessed a serious accident today. I was standing at the bus stop, along with perhaps 20 or so other people, waiting for the bus. I had just waved goodbye to a friend who had hopped onto another bus. After a short while, a saw a bicyclist crossing the intersection, pedalling with effort but moving slowly. A car was crossing at the same time. At the moment it seemed the car was approaching unusually close to the cyclist, and I assumed maybe the driver was pressuring the cyclist to move aside for crossing at an improper time. I did not notice what the traffic light’s status was, and so cannot comment on who had the right of way. The car kept on moving and ran into the cyclist with a sharp, but not very loud, bang. I was no more than ten meters from the scene.

In the seconds before the impact, the cyclist had his head down and seemed focused on getting a move on, so I was not sure if he was aware of the car right beside him. It looked like the car clipped the back half of the bike. The cyclist flopped off the hood, then windshield, and crumpled to the ground in an instant. The collision did not seem particularly severe to me, and I was expecting the cyclist to get back up. After two seconds, and I had not seen any movement, I glanced to see that car would not hit me in its trajectory, than stepped around to the other side of the car to look at the victim. He was lying face down, with his arms at his sides and his legs neatly extended, but completely motionless. I exclaimed, “Shit,” more as a statement to alert those around me of the gravity of the situation rather than an expression of shock.

At this point the driver began to get out of his vehicle and a crowd was slowly congregating. The first thought that immediately popped into my mind as to how to proceed was to call 911. I made no move to reach for my phone, as I was hoping someone else would be taking that responsibility. A short instance afterwards I could hear that someone was indeed doing that. I looked around at the crowd, noting the faces of uncertainty and concern. Before I could wonder who among us was most qualified to take charge, a girl had already stepped forward and was interacting with the victim. I quickly rushed through a brief rundown of first aid procedure to apply and realized I had no idea what to do.

The girl had a hand on the victim’s head, which I assumed was to stabilize it against movement. Blood was pooling from his head on the wet ground, as it was a misty day with light rain. She was talking to the victim, getting assurance as to his level of consciousness and consolation. Again I glanced around the crowd; those in close vicinity who had stepped forward from the bus stop was not that numerous. Many people were just standing at the bus stop in shock. I wondered what I could do to help. I did know that standing around and crowding the scene without helping would only be a hindrance. The victim was in fact conscious and talking, and the girl seemed to have the situation under control. I noticed she had blood on her fingers, as I mentally questioned the appropriateness of holding his head down as she did. Trying to assess the situation with my best intuitive sense of first aid, rather than reaching for my foggy training of correct procedures, I decided that I would have looked for a bandage to wrap around his head to stem the bleeding.

I knew that I had a very key witness position in this accident, so I hesitated whether I should stay around. But I also reasoned that many among those waiting at the bus stop shared the same experience. There wasn’t that much to dispute anyways. I could tell the road would be blocked for a while, with traffic in that direction moving at a crawl to squeeze by the accident scene. I turned around and headed away to my alternate bus stop that took a different route.

In the following minutes I thought of this. That girl taking charge would be labelled as a hero. I did not want to be labelled as another gawking bystander, another useless uncontributory blockage subject to the “bystander effect”. However, there was only room for one hero. I felt she was doing a competent job; declaring any sort of challenge against her initiative would require a huge justification for an expertise I did not have. Furthermore, I knew that in such a situation having more than one leader or lead caretaker would only lead to confusion, miscommunication and mismanagement. It was proper to have one person call the shots. She could be the hero.

I played over in my head how I would have acted if I were that hero instead. Then I considered I would have felt if I were the victim. I was bleeding from my head but could talk. I would have appreciated some consolation and touch from my saviour, with soothing words and soft talking. However, I also realized that it might reach the point where my talking became painful and counterproductive – in this case I would wish for the rescuer to take over the conversation. Therefore, as the hero, I would have made sure that beyond the crucial basic information I would request from the victim, I should ask the question whether the victim felt comfortable to continue talking.

There can only be one hero. Maybe someday, in a less witnessed accident, I will have to step up to play the hero. This was the first time I had experienced such a serious accident up close and personal. If it seems from the tone I had no empathy for the victim, I was worried for his recovery and sorry for his misfortune. Did I handle the situation correctly? I suspect the answer is probably not. But, nevertheless, those are the facts that transpired.

The rope lifted off the ground and pulled taut with a snap. Four boys and one girl began to clamber onto the wooden raft. The vessel was their crown achievement they had built over the summer, a project the group of seven friends took great pride in. It had taken three weeks to cut down the logs, modify their shape, and tying the parts together with rope. Kafei and Temari stood on the grassy riverside, watching their comrades splash, vying to get onto the boat. It didn’t take long before the five of them were on.

“Untie the knot!” the tallest boy shouted over the roar of the river.

Kafei had warned them today that the river was much stronger than usual. Their plan had been to ride down the river in the raft they had built. When they made their way down to the riverside that afternoon, Kafei sensed the current was dangerous. Crests and whirlpools were forming where there should be none. Kafei tried to persuade them to abandon their ambition for the day, but his powers of argument were weak. He did manage to convince the more timid Temari to stay on land, but the rest of the group wanted their voyage. He would not join his friends in their risk.

“I’m giving you one last chance to think again!” Kafei responded, knowing that the chance of a change in decision was zero and his final warning was a mere formality. “Alan! Brian! Carl! Dan! Erica! You all ready?” Kafei called each of their names, receiving final consent everyone.

Temari followed Kafei as he walked to the tree to which the raft was tied. His fingers danced over the rope as the knot loosened. He gave one final yank and the knot broke open. The raft drifted slowly at first but accelerated quickly. Its passengers hollered in glee. Kafei and Temari jogged alongside to watch their friend’s voyage. Suddenly, the raft hit a large current at a bend and flipped over. The five children’s screams rang out to the shoreline, but were smothered by the continued roar of the river. Some splashing could be seen, but not for long. It took three days to recover the children’s bodies.

***

He hated dealing with the corpses. Kafei gingerly plucked up the dead mice with his forceps and deposited them into the black plastic bag. He couldn’t draw conclusive evidence from his experiment, but it was enough to support his hypothesis. He heard the door open and looked up to see his assistant walking in with a heavy paper bag. It looked liked his chemicals had arrived.

Fifteen years had passed since the boating accident. Time slowly eroded the memories of that fateful day, but Kafei had a hard time living down his guilt. He could sense the animosity of many of the adults towards him, knowing the dangers yet sending their children off onto their doom. He was able to accumulate a sizable wealth through an obscure inheritance. He was not generous with his money, and became a rather unpopular figure among the townsfolk. Kafei spent most of his time conducting experiments in the solitude of his laboratory.

Kafei had been monitoring the water supply in his village for some time. Recently he had been detecting abnormally high levels of bacteria. Upon further study, high volumes of ingestion of this bacteria caused serious medical problems, including fever, vomiting, diarrhea, and death. He also found that the bacteria count could be reduced or eliminated with a chlorine compound. It was previously established that this compound was also not perfectly safe for consumption – it also had its share of adverse effects, though not as severe as the bacteria.

Kafei knew he had to take immediate action to disinfect the water supply, or else the bacteria count would quickly reach dangerous levels and poison the entire village. He brought up this issue with the town council and tried to circulate his findings around town. His efforts were unable to attract much attention, however. The understanding of microbiology was still in its infancy, and the townsfolk were not particularly highly educated. Most were not even aware of the existence of microscopic life forms. This was compounded with the need to contaminate their water supply with a minor poison, and the villagers were quick to vote down his proposition.

Kafei was faced with two choices: abide by the wishes of the townsfolk and hope that the water could stay safe, or take matters into his own hands and introduce his disinfectant into the water source. He did not have the time for more exhaustive scientific research to confirm his observations, nor did he really want to go through with the hassle. Even though Kafei didn’t particularly like most of the townsfolk, he would not want to see everyone dead.

“You can’t go and dump this toxic compound into the water. People will get sick,” Temari had objected. “How can you be so sure you are right?”

“I’m not. I could very well be wrong. But I must operate under the presumption that I am right – to do anything else is a betrayal to my abilities.”

“Again with your elitist attitude. I’m sick and tired of your cockiness. Why can’t you ever admit that other people can sometimes be right and you’re wrong?”

“How is it even possible to sound modest when I am asserting my viewpoint as the only correct one? I can’t help it. Of course I can be wrong. However, think about this: someone with talents much above others in an area, yet too modest to challenge the status quo, will fail to rise through the ceiling and make a difference. The problem is, I happen to be in a position that enables my drawing conclusions that others are unable to make.

Remember that boating accident when they died? I was in a position that they did not have - I had the foresight to identify the dangers that were lurking. Yet I didn’t take action to prevent them from going. Suddenly, I was partially responsible for their deaths, purely by being more aware of the things happening. Their parents – I can tell some of them still haven’t forgiven me. My only fault was knowing too much. If I had been a silly carefree kid the rest of them, and stayed behind because I had hurt my foot or something, than I would have been innocent and blameless.

This time, again, I claim to know more than the average villager. Does it become my moral obligation to prevent their disaster, even if it goes against their wishes? Either I can ruin their fun and make them slightly sick, or watch them all die as they are infected by the bacteria. No matter what, they’ll hate me for it.”

Temari said, “And what if you are wrong then? You will have made them sick for nothing. No one is convinced the bacteria pose any harm. The effects of the chlorine compound aren’t very well known either. You could make the situation worse.”
“I could very well be wrong. I guess that’s what separates the heros from the villains in history, eh? Fate.”

That night Kafei went down to the well under the cover of darkness and dumped the contents of his paper bag into the water. He watched as the white powder swirled and dissolved into the watery abyss.

What is the first thing that comes to mind after reading the title? Incest is perhaps the preeminent example of a cultural taboo we hold in modern society. The mere mention of the word itself immediately evokes ingrained associations of revulsion and disgust. Most anyone would agree it is unacceptable behaviour, and scramble to flush the idea out of their head. But yet it seems to remain a popular theme in adult entertainment, especially from the “wacky deviant Japanese”.

It has also popped up intermittently in mainstream culture. The best example I can think of is Oldboy, who I suspect many here may be familiar with. I haven’t watched the film, but I read the synopsis. That’s how I try to consume relevant pop-cultural knowledge without divesting too much time in them. Clearly, its perpetuation in the media and artistic works means there is some common thread of appreciation among a notable chunk of the population for this incest theme. However, it is heavily detrimental to one’s reputation to challenge this taboo, and so few are willing to admit their attraction (whether conscious or unconscious) to it.

I shall restrict my discussion of this relationship to sibling-sibling attraction, and not parent-child. The latter relation relies heavily on trust and dependence, so any Oedipus-style incest falls easily into a situation of abuse. A brother and sister duo, however, share a similar position of experience and authority, and such a relationship would be more “fair”.

What is the secret allure to having intimate relations with a sibling? Contrary to the common saying, opposites do not attract. Similarities, in fact, attract. This is a rather obvious trend that I do not really have to argue. You make friends with people who share similar interests and traits. Compatibilities are based on complementary attributes, not outright personality clashes. So who else can possibly be more similar to yourself than a peer with the same genetic inheritance? No one can understand the same experiences of growing up as a brother and sister.

Here I can also refer to that news story of a couple who grew up independently, met, married and had children, and later found out they were actually a brother and sister who had been separated as toddlers. I won’t bother to research a link, but you can look it up if interested. This is at least one story of an unlikely, disturbing relationship between brother and sister.

One common lament for incestuous relationships is the dreaded developmentally disabled offspring. How this misunderstanding perpetuated so strongly into mainstream acceptance is surprising to me. Breeding among closely related individuals in no way guarantees genetic defects in the offspring. The gene pool is smaller; exposure to additional genetic variations is limited; dominant alleles may be absent and a recessive allele trait may become likely, yes. The actual effect of all this to produce a defective mutant, however, is probably infinitesimal compared to other factors such as mutagenic exposure, older-aged eggs, or defective genes in the general population.

The royal families in Europe are often used as an example for pedigree diagrams. As far as I can tell they were not overrun by rampant retards after a couple of generations. In fact, I would argue that possibly superior genes (assuming their rise to power was attributable to some degree to merit) are concentrated in a bloodline to breed an even stronger line of offspring.

Incest does not seem to be a major taboo among animals in nature, as far as I am aware. Possibly they may be predisposed for partners from another litter, but if two specimens are placed in an enclosure, they would reproduce to birth subsequent generations despite their common lineage.

So where does our aversion of incest stem from? The bible or any other relevant religious text would probably be a good place to start. I am not saying these artifacts are totally worthless – much of their preached values often provide useful guidance for many people in the world.

If existing culture was completely torn down and all existing mores forgotten, what kinds of values would you retain sheerly for tradition’s sake? If you found yourself among an army of clones of yourself, would you be so sure that you would not be attracted to a girl version of you? I am convinced I would be very turned on by a girl version of myself. Maybe that is narcissism in its ultimate form? Hahaha.

For the record, I don’t have a sister. I probably wouldn’t dare try anything like this if I did. But people have their fetishes, and this one doesn’t seem totally unique. Taboo, perhaps, but not unique.

Free speech is a privilege many of us value highly as a fundamental right. People are allowed to voice their opinions on almost anything they wish, so long as it does not violate some boundaries of other rights. Everyone has their own views on topics. Differences in opinion lead to disagreement and debate, a natural attempt to convince the opposing party that one’s own stance is the correct one.

Debates on internet forums have become a major medium for discussion. The ultimate goal is to convince all sides that your own views are true, or at the very least, to educate the opposition of their faulty logic. But what is the true incidence of success and satisfaction derived from such debates? In almost all cases, each side is steadfastly locked on their opinion, and unwilling to change their position. It seems participating in such an argument is a trial in patience and stamina, until one side grows tired of the argument and realizes the futility of the exercise.

I shall give a background of my own attitudes towards conflict. I grew up in an environment where my parents never got along. They were constantly fighting and bickering over every small thing. As a child, I considered myself still too young to interfere with adult business, and stayed out of their arguments. As my brothers grew older, they began to have some rebellious tendencies of typical teenage nature, which was another source of conflict in the household. I was rarely involved. Instead I turned to my computer games and ignored all the screaming and yelling. Many nights I would lie on my bed, trying to sleep through another raucous shouting match, apparently not interested in the issue and never bothering to get in the way. I was most annoyed that the majority of issues were small, trivial matters that escalated quickly into broken glass and holes in the walls I would find the next morning. I blame these experiences as having a large impact on my personality today.

Since I had gotten into the habit of staying out of the conflict, I never became an avid participant in arguments or debates. I would judge from a distance and draw my own conclusions on who was right or wrong. I have a strong tendency to avoid confrontational conflict, often at my own expense.

Inspired by the “true cause of extinction” thread on global warming, the chance of convincing the opposition to one’s own viewpoint is dismal and absolutely. Surely no one truly expects the other side to cave in, on an internet forum no less. Why even bother with trying so hard?

One major problem inherent in such a debate is the use of supporting facts to back up the respective arguments. Take the claim that “the overwhelming consensus of the science community is in support of man-made global warming”. Firstly, who exactly are the people who qualify as the science experts on the matter? Perhaps the geologists and climatologists or whatever other discipline that studies these areas. But it seems to me these fields are more about collecting data on various factors and analyzing trends and forecasting patterns. A distinction should be made between researchers and scientists. Pure science should be backed by the results and observations of replicable experiments. The venerable fields of physics, chemistry, and to a lesser extent biology, have their origins in the scientific method and have produced some very elegant conclusions.

However, when applying this knowledge to a very complex system of natural weather systems, results are less replicable and innumerable variables come into play. Applied science in geology and climatology or whatever else is still relatively new. The statistics people gather are directly from the field of nature and not easily reproducible in a lab. Hence any conclusions drawn from such research can be easily skewed by interpreters to suit whatever agenda they already have in mind.

Global warming is a special issue because of it is heavily influenced by political and media directives. Experts who speak against man-made global warming (ie. deny its impact) are quickly discredited and face immense pressures from the community. But as history has shown, the majority is not always correct.

Thus it can be said that the only time I would bother pointing out my arguments is when I feel that the audience can be influenced by my words. Arguing when you know the opposition will not budge is pointless and wasteful. In fact, this is the logic I often adopt: my opposition is wrong in their beliefs. They are at a disadvantage, while I hold the correct viewpoint. If I use my efforts to enlighten them on their position, I lose my competitive advantage. Thus I can benefit from exploiting their ignorance, leaving them in the dark while forging ahead myself.

This of course is not applicable when the issue affects a public good, such as the environment. Then debate must take place, but sometimes, an infinite amount of persuasion still fails to change the minds of those locked in their beliefs. Ultimately it is up to the leader’s decisions that make the difference in what is accomplished.

Kinda weird I'm writing an essay here for no reason. Whatever, maybe the next one will be more interesting.

I decided to chronicle my recent life story so that hopefully, sometime in the future, I can look back at my experiences and remember where I have been. I think it should neatly encompass all my previous blog entries at TL from the very beginning. I will also add some personal details where I have previously been vague – the context may impact the reader’s perspective . Some of my internet paranoia has also subsided, due to realizing that probably no one cares enough to trace my identity that far.

The overload of awesome can be a terrible thing. As some are painfully aware, I cultivate an extreme dose of self-esteem and confidence. It does not show through my public facade, but it deeply influences my attitudes towards situations.

My parents were not particularly strict in my upbringing. I must attribute most of that to my own unusually disciplined personality from a very early age. They have never had to worry about my succumbing to bad habits or influences. My intrinsic manners and good insight were unshakable, and I had learned early some more typically mature traits, such as long term planning and fiscal conservation. When I went to Chuck E Cheese or Woody Woodchucks to play those token operated arcade games, I always had trouble using up all the tokens my parents bought for me. I was already familiar with the value of money and controlled spending, carefully rationing my entertainment allowance. In the end my tokens would be shared amongst the others who had since used up their own.

I should be thankful, then, that I was not subject to the rigours of the super strict parent. In fact, the reverse became true. By the later grades of elementary school, my parents started to worry about my lack of social involvement with friends. I began to resemble a loner. At the time, I acknowledged the truth behind their words, but decided I did not mind my relatively quiet lifestyle. Eventually, and today still, they began pushing me to go out to more parties, loosen up around new friends, and find myself a girlfriend. It is funny that they push me in this direction instead of the more typical youth worries.

So where does that put me right now? You’ve heard this before, maybe. I am an academic super star. I am all-around athletically beastly. My main sport is badminton (if you are snickering at that, think again). As an interesting note, to my great surprise I won the grade nine men’s physical education/gym award. I also happen to be a guitar virtuoso. As one friend once commented in admiration, “You’re pro at everything.” Bear in mind I am not such a pompous asshole in real life – I use this language mainly for comical effect.

Now I am 21. I had initially put my university and program of study here, but edited it out due to the details I wrote later on. It happens to be so exclusive that divulging this would narrow down my identity too much. It is jokingly known to other students as the “ten person per year” program. Those who have heard of it might appreciate what it means to be enrolled in it.

That brings me to my first major life failure. I have always thrived in a competitive environment. I have always been able to break through the competition and claim my just rewards. Many of my peers in the accounting stream were able to land jobs at the big four accounting firms. That I was not able to land such a position was perplexing and a big blow to me. I did not, and still do not, understand what kind of demented selection criteria they use. I had to settle for another CA firm. What mattered to me was pay, prestige and work experience. Other top-tier qualified candidates I knew shared my predicament, but at least were able to get mid-size firms. I was in the end shafted to a small CA firm out of town and not what I wanted.

In the beginning, I thought it wouldn’t be too big of a deal. Since I was desperate at that point to get a job, I agreed to my last available offer, without asking about my salary. This was not a mistake on my part since I had no other choice, but was heavily disappointed when I found my salary was practically half of what some of my peers were making. That’s ok... it’s just a temporary eight month co-op term anyways, right? It would be over soon.

But as the days continued to pass, I was more and more disconnected. Everyone at this small firm was over 30. Not really a big deal, except it just compounded my own inability for small talk with this generation divide, for I was not accustomed to befriending this demographic. As these problems grew on my mind, I resented my job more and more. I can not fault my co-workers for this, however – I take credit for my shortcomings that make my own life miserable. After perhaps the first month or so, I deeply despised where I was headed each morning.

I became extremely depressed at this point, moreso than at any other time in my life. Then the problem of my lack of friends came back to haunt me. I did not really have close ties to high school friends at home. Those that were close to me had moved farther away to make meeting inconvenient. Any that were still around did not seem to go out much, or if they did, never invited me along. My newer friends I had made at university were scattered around the area, but none within a convenient proximity for a casual chat. I felt absolutely alone and left out.

But something else must have been troubling me. Even when we did sometimes meet up for a party or gathering, I go, but at the end of the night I feel little different from before. Was it not the lack of social interaction that was bothering me? Then it must have been something else weighing on my mind. Here I decided that I had to resolve my inconclusive attraction to this girl. I had nothing more to lose. The story is in these posts:

Almost Nearly Gone
Subway Drains
Burying the Fantasy

The conclusion of that was no further relationship. I guess I never wrote exactly what I said. After the subway event, I told her on the phone, “I really meant what I said on Tuesday night. These past couple of months at co-op have been really hard on me. And throughout, I was always thinking of you. Whatever you might want to say, I just wanted to say this and go on with no regrets.” (sort of a grammar-edited, romanticized version, but I hope it came out somewhat resembling this).

So she declined. I thought that would be the end of that and my depression would subside. That at least another kind of heart-ache pain would replace my restless isolation problem. But strangely, not much was different at all. I still think of her more than I should, and am as frustrated as ever. I am confused with what I want. Lately, I’ve been daydreaming about the solution I have prepared, that is, jumping off a freeway overpass precisely aimed in the path of an oncoming truck. The impact would occur while I am still midair and cause an instant end. I would prefer the more stylistic and considerate method described in Snow Angel to avoid the resultant driver shock and traffic jam, but it is summer and I live in the city.

It is ironic that I chose to take the plunge by confessing my feelings to alleviate my depression. Instead, it has the unanticipated effect of truly dispatching any remaining hesitation and regrets. Now I am ready to exit without the uncertainty of this open issue.

There has been, however, an additional incentive. Many people would see this writing as the sign of an attention whore. I admit, that’s probably exactly what it is. I have been ignored for too long and it’s time to make myself known through tragedy. How pathetic, then, that if I do die like that, no one would probably find out for months. This has also been a persistent question in my mind: if I die, when will this person I value find out, and how would they take the news? I am convinced of the sad truth that aside from immediate family, those that I think of most would not know for a considerable time. I am simply never part of the loop, never part of the party, eternally the awkward outsider. Then that would make my death simply a waste. You can accuse me of being screwed up and perverted, but that is my detached nature to be objective.

I look in the mirror. I see a fine male specimen any girl with good taste would fantasize about. The problem: no one knows I exist. No one knows how secretly awesome I am. Actually, some people do realize I am awesome – the true problem is that for me to become attracted to a partner, I must warm up considerably from a very cool start. It takes a while, and the time is running out. I have experienced the taste of life after school, in the workforce. Opportunities in school will be ending soon, and the world afterwards is bleak. I worry for my future.

Well, my work term ended at the end of July. Accounting is boring and I am currently studying to write MCAT at the end of the month. Then I start school again in September. The feelings of depression are still with me. I harbour a deep jealousy knowing that others are enjoying their life more, that I play no role in it. Work, work, work... is that all there is for me? I don’t even want to become a doctor. I don’t care much about healing patients – in fact, in my world, the sick would be left to perish. I only pursue this path because it makes good, stable money and because I can.

Despite my personal malcontent with accounting, my employers rated me highly in work performance evaluation. All their comments were very good. I was able to leave a rather positive impression on them. I never knew I was that good at acting, but I had only considered it a professional responsibility. I guess, once again, because I can.

I sit in my room and wither the time away. My youth, so far, has been wasting away, and won’t be coming back. I am not sure how much I enjoy the time I spend in the company of friends, yet I feel left out of everything they enjoy on their own free time. I sit in my room and grow restless. My awesome is wasted in the confines of my room. What the hell do I want?

With the improvements in modern medicine and health care, people are living ever-lengthening life spans. I would not be surprised if the young generation living today would eventually attain lifespans of greater than 200 years. It is important that they remain healthy and productive as long as possible, or else if they become infirm after 100 years, that is another half of their life that they become a burden for the rest of productive society to support.

Telomere shortening and limited cell division potential seems to be accepted as a popular theory for aging. To me, it does seem to make a lot of sense; other biological mechanisms for organism deterioration are so far not well documented. It would explain the apparent immortality of those cell types that do have telomerase to extend their allowed division cycles.

I think it will not be in the far future when immortals walk among us. By immortal, of course, I do not mean invincible. People can still die from physical damage. However, they may be free from the effects of aging and enjoy eternal youth, or at least eternal peak physical maturation state. When combining both fields of biotechnology and human cybernetic enhancements, such a possibility would be a difficult case to doubt.

I have often thought about the scenario when such a feat was achieved. Could you imagine living continuously for one thousand years? Is the human mind capable of handling this huge volume of memories? What mental adaptations might we require to remain sane in this environment?

To me, the most striking difference is that death becomes a much more devastating event. Currently, all people die – it is inevitable. A child dying shortly after birth was barely given the chance to live. To me, it seems as if they never really existed as a person, because their experiences and contributions to the world were non-existent. Healthy people die of old age, when their biological systems no longer function sufficiently to sustain life. The relatives of patients who become gravely ill already harbour the concession at the back of their mind that their loved one will depart soon – even if not immediately, their sickness will eventually claim them. That is why the sudden shock of someone dying unexpectedly in an accident is, I would imagine, a cause for much greater traumatic grief and emotional impact.

But what if we, as immortals, did not die, so long as we lived cautiously and avoided being run over by trains. Imagine growing up beside your best friend, someone you have known and treasured for 400 years, with no estimable date when the friendship may end. When something happens to that person, the feeling of loss must be magnified countless times. You know that you could have enjoyed much more time together, to share many more experiences. The meaning of loss suddenly becomes much more clear. Consider this happening several times with close friends during your hundreds of years of existence. Needless to say, think of the infinite sorrow of losing your truly committed romantic partner. How much grief can a person withstand?

When death is no longer inescapable, we would become that much more regretful of actions that cause mortal harm to others. When people do live on a limited life span, any such occurrences merely create timing differences of the departure that is sure to happen. When a loved one dies, we know that we will eventually share the same fate as them and join them in their final destination.

And then comes the question of mental capacity. Can the human mind truly handle all the information it has accumulated for hundreds or thousands of years? I would postulate that after a long enough stay, insanity is bound to affect the person’s mind. Factoring in the layers of grief that they may experience, it may become a normal situation where the subject has decided they have lived enough of their life, and resort to voluntary suicide. They may also struggle to find meaning in a life that would otherwise never end.

One final note I’d like to make is that the population controls must be implemented. If the death rate diminished to near zero, while the birth rate is unchanged, the planet would quickly become starved for resources. Births must be tightly regulated, such that new births are only allowed when a death occurs. Because it appears that biological clocks would be unaffected for reproductive purposes, ie. the number of eggs females are born with are limited, should a generation live so long that all the females are no longer fertile, the race is doomed. One solution is to preserve or freeze eggs for implantation when birth is desired. A very interesting alternative is to keep some humans mortal, who maintain the normal life cycles to cultivate newborns, whilst they live among immortals.

This is the third chapter of my recent life experience, the first two being “Almost Nearly Gone” and “Subway Drains” (my blogs don’t get much attention, so I’ll have to advertise).

Here’s a quick recap of what has been happening. I was growing very discontent with my job and overall life situation, to which I was committed for eight months. My ability to maintain relationships was challenged. However, what I determined to weigh heaviest on my mind was my unrealized desire for a girl.

I had become so distraught that I eventually decided to resolve my inner conflict. I asked her out for dinner in “Almost Nearly Gone”, to which she accepted. I intended to confess my thoughts to her at that encounter, but the words didn’t come out.

Subsequently, after another painful wait, we met up again in “Subway Drains”. I dropped the very random line out of nowhere. The next day I tried to call her and clarify the meaning of what I said. She was unavailable. I tried again the day after, and that night she returned my call.

I told her the whole story and how I truly felt. Somehow my confession induced her to near tears, as I could hear her voice choking and cracking. “Let’s just be friends,” was the line that came through.

So after all that, what do I feel now? Surprisingly, the rejection was not that hurtful. I had been fully anticipating this reaction, I suppose. I am not blindly obsessed – I think I am able to read at least some hints of attraction, and I had already guessed my level of interest was not mutual. The only reason I was so direct was that I desperately needed closure.

But you know what? I am very proud of myself for what I did. My life motto is “no regrets”. I took the ultimate leap and made my intentions clear. There will be no more second guessing or doubts or blind assumptions. I will not regret missing this chance for the rest of my life, wondering what if. This was the first time I had attempted anything like this.

But where does that leave me now? Strangely, I’m still pretty down. I guess it might take some time to recover. I was kind of expecting a rush of liberation, but that has not come. More troubling, though, is how to find someone else that measures up to this person’s standards.

I have a fetish for quality. I am extremely selective in my tastes. At restaurants, I am the last one to decide what to order, after exhaustively combing through menu and consulting my taste for the day. I will not settle for anything less.

This seems to be problematic then. After the slight tease of this quality, it will be difficult to find an appropriate replacement. I would probably be unwilling to settle for any compromise, now that my sights have been set so highly. Hmph. I am worried that shall become my next struggle.

Disclaimer: My first foray into a fictional layer. Apart from the dying in the snow bit (obviously), the rest of the embedded stories are true.

I took out my cell phone to look at the time. It had been a 45 minute walk from the road where I parked my car. I carefully studied my surroundings, making sure I was content with the site. I had been walking through a sparsely wooded forest, in a remote corner few people would come across. I puffed out a breath into the winter air, watching as the vapour rose up over the treetops. I was standing in a small cozy clearing, with the purity of undisturbed snow beckoning at my feet. The trees were nearly motionless, only slightly quivering from the weight of snow sitting on the branches.

I scanned 360 degrees around the clearing and found no clear line of sight through the trees. I was satisfied with this site. I put down my backpack and took out my last meal: a pineapple bun. I sat down on the snowy ground, resting against the tree trunk. I grinned as I bit slowly into my treat. I always did appreciate the savoury of simplicity in life.

I chewed down the last bites of the bun, taking care not to drop any crumbs on the ground. I stripped off my coat and all my clothing, folding it neatly in a pile. Aesthetics could not be ignored – everyone had their bouts of obsessive compulsion, and this was the time to honour those urges. A shot of cold tore through my body as my bare feet touched the snow.

I reached into my bag to take out a clipboard, a pen, several sheets of paper, and plastic sheet covers. I returned to my previous sitting spot and tried my best to sit down comfortably, shivering uncontrollably as my skin sunk into the snow. Even though I my body had always been quite sensitive to cold, my mind was exhilarated by freezing temperatures. I started to write.

“The words on these pages may be considered to have impossibly greater meaning than any other piece of work I might otherwise create. Context is always important. I have struggled much of my life to dismiss the virtues of art, the waste of abstract expression with no direct contribution to physical improvement. Ironic that my last actions finally succumb to the liberation of expression, in the desperate act to become something people might admire. Or at least I can try.

I might consider myself to be an old-style romantic. I don’t even know what exactly that means, but it seems to apply. I also seem to view the world at a poetic angle. Not in the sense that I write the annoying drivel of words boxed in a fixed format and blindly praised, known as poems. More in the seeking of poetic justice, and the appreciation basic truths. Someone that experiences wildly imaginative bouts of emotion, yet somehow is able to suppress all of it under a hard, cold demeanour. That’s probably what has led me to this anyways.

Of course writing itself is an art form. It is wholly inadequate in the expression of ideas, but it is all I have to work with now. The thoughts we attempt to convey are severely handicapped by any linguistic invention. Short of telepathy, there will never be an adequate substitute for unspoken understanding. But what choice do I have? I try anyways.

I don’t much care if this effort is a failure. I have never paid heed to critics. There is no need to explain to inferior beings who don’t understand my genius. Sometimes intuition is inexplicable, and the innate feelings of one’s true intentions cannot be taught.

I have long considered that I was born as a truly good person – very pure of heart, almost saintly. I was a cautious child, who knew that the path to a nice world lay in the goodwill of people. But as I grew up and encountered real life, I changed drastically. I grew cold and distant, appearing selfish and uncaring. Imaginative? I would normally reserve such reaching claims, but as my final words, I am free of all inhibitions.

Indeed, I have not felt truer freedom than where I am now. My extremities are beginning to freeze over and lose feeling. I only hope that my hands remain warm long enough to keep my writing legible. My runny nose trickles onto the pages as I write. It must look quite clumsy and vulnerable. My ears are probably bright red, quickly as they turn in the cold. Knowing that my suffering will soon end, I grow excited.

I want to recount some of the stories in my head. The events themselves are not particularly spectacular. But these are the moments that stay with me, that I pack in my deepest and most secure crevice of my mind. Poetic scenes.

I was sitting at the bus stop on a snowy night. The glass walls were enshrouded in fog, so that the car and traffic lights outside translated into blurs of light. I was waiting to bus back home after a night at a school-organized ‘ball’. People dressed in formal wear, but of course the event was a typical loud dance floor scene that appealed to college students. University classes had just ended, and students took the chance to celebrate before exams started soon. Outside, the snow was piled high, the hour was late, and the air was chillingly cold. Normally I did not venture to these kind of functions, but I made an exception for the chance to meet up with a certain girl.

As the sky dictated, there was a heavy snowstorm that night, and the girl would not be coming through the storm. The same snowstorm that I endured alone, waiting for a heavily delayed bus to take me to campus. My face was thoroughly drenched in water by the time I arrived. I did not much mind; the pleasure of having a reason to stand in the middle of a blizzard was a pleasure in itself. But clearly, not everyone appreciated nature’s frosty whirlwind. I adored snow for the way it was able to mute all inelegance in the world with white silence.

I stayed for a good while, hanging out with some other friends who had made it. Making the most of the situation, I filled up as much as I could on the abundance of strawberries that was offered. I never did enjoy the party much, nor did I expect to. When I was sufficiently bored, full, and convinced that the girl was not coming, I bid farewell and left for home. It was a solitary walk. The noise of the dance followed me behind my back as I marched my way back through the snow to the bus stop.

So there I sat, alone and disappointed. The bench was cold, easily felt through the thin dress pants I was wearing. My expectations were devastatingly crushed, but I was used to it. It was a lovely night though. One that I shared with no one, cursed to be by myself. Someone might write a poem about this solitary figure, heaped with sorrow, waiting for the nameless souls of public service to take him home. No one would. No one knew the frustration I was plagued with. I guess I might have to write it myself.

Sounding overly dramatic? I deserve one chance. I have shunned sharing these emotions with people. My social behaviours have been accustomed to run on auto-pilot, boarding up any signs of sensitivity. To the rare soul I will open up, ever so slightly, in the hopes that they might be able to offer me solace. I gave them the glimmering bait, but of course, my hints are subtle. My help never came.

This next scenario happened in the summer. There was a street festival near my house. After dinner, I had nothing to do, so I guess I might as well go out for a stroll. I knew if I didn’t, languishing at home wouldn’t much help my longing for closure.

As I entered the fringe of the festival, I passed an old acquaintance I had known since grade school. There are quite a few people in my vicinity that still fit this bill. Sadly, I have unable to maintain contact with them. She was holding hands with a man I had never seen. I made eye contact with my friend, and I dipped my head in acknowledgement. But my legs never stopped. Autopilot again. When I walk, I walk with focus – my legs just keep going until I get to my destination. I passed by, the girl still looking at me. I wanted to say hi, but it was already too late. I was already across the road. The connections would remain broken.

When I got to the festival, I was surprised by the volume of people. I had come here in previous years, but it hadn’t been quite this packed. I slowly manoeuvred through the crowd, heading towards the concert stage to see what people were watching. I avoided eye contact with vendors at the side booths, a natural response to avoid unwanted attention, even if their products interested me. Possibly a bit rude at times, but again, on autopilot.

I tend to walk with an air of direction. The less you look like a tourist, the less likely you will be a targeted victim. I got close enough to catch a glimpse of the singer, turned around, and began to make my way out of the crowd, this time down the other aisle of booths. I emerged from the tightly packed crowds, the whole ordeal lasting less than ten minutes. I began to walk home, feeling slightly silly, and as usual, utterly lost.

This walk would be unsettling for me. While I wish I didn’t have to reflect so much on my life, my mind is relentless. Restless imagination can be painful. I left so quickly because I felt uncomfortable surrounded by so many people. I thought if I were to stop, stand stationary, and simply take in the scene, I would be viewed as strange and awkward. Getting in the way of traffic. Especially pathetic that I was there by myself.

I walked down the street and took a turn into a quaint park path, lined by single trees on either side. I was well familiar with the area. Years ago, this path was completely unlit; the route was short, but I found it immensely unsettling, the embodiment of fear. There was a sense of preeminent danger, that some invisible horror was lurking behind one of the trees. Since then, lights were installed, casting a weak luminescence on the path, and throwing shadows in all directions.

Beyond the trees and the fences, the path was bordered by backyards and houses. Warm yellow light shone through the windows, creating an inviting yet eerie glint. Time passed, and I had grown up. These familiar yellow windows cast a strong image in my memory. The lights were still around, the house’s occupants having grown older. My childhood seemed irreconcilably distant. I was now a man, yet my outlook on life was dim, worn down by sadness and depression.

I had given my mode of departure much thought. Initially I was attracted to jumping into traffic and getting hit by a truck. I was drawn in by reports of so-and-so victim died instantly I read in the newspapers. Instant death? What could be better than a painless finale? Instead, I have chosen to freeze myself in a remote snowscape. I find it much more... dignified. After all, I am a considerate soul, and would rather spare the unpredictable accident of an innocent truck driver and nearby motorists. It also gives me the chance to write these pages.

My time is up. My body has given up - the shivering has stopped. There is no more warmth to burn. I lived, I loved, I metaphorically cried, I died. Farewell.”

I carefully inserted my pages into the plastic covers, each one in its own encasement. I laid them neatly into my backpack. I took a look one last time at my cell phone. I briefly considered turning it off, but then again, no one would be calling anyway. I positioned myself carefully in the centre of the clearing, easing myself onto my final bed.

I took off my glasses, and delicately placed them beside my head. I was nearly blind without them. I stared into the sky. A light snow had begun to fall. What a picturesque fate, I thought to myself. A smile crept onto my lips. There was no greater serenity than what I now felt. I closed my eyes and gave one last shudder.

An update to a previous blog. If you’re interested, at http://www.teamliquid.net/blogs/viewblog.php?topic_id=93554

I headed downtown to meet up with a small group of friends for a night out. It was more convenient for them to stay downtown, so I had to go along with their plan. I live in the suburbs and prefer not venturing downtown. It takes a while, traffic is bad, and the streets are dirty. To avoid the agitating traffic and satisfy my own preference for not driving, I decided to take public transit to get there.

I do not venture downtown very often, nor use buses. When I arrived at the destination subway stop, I misread the directions and accidentally exited the station, when I should have stayed in and transfer on a bus. I called my friend to see what I could do, and she told me the meeting place was walkable.

Me, being the hardcore no-complaint trekker, took the 20-minute walk and got to the restaurant in time, although heading the wrong way in the process. I was used to getting lost in strange places – but in the end I always find the right way, purely through my logical observations and puzzle solving ability. Maybe asking for directions is more efficient, but I suppose that is a last resort for me. Along the way, I began to doubt my decision on going there. It was an inconvenient trip, I was getting lightly drizzled by rain, and I was stressing for being a fool in getting lost and distraught. In the end, it was a good thing I did go; I knew I desperately needed these outings. As someone once advised me, the more I refused these sorts of opportunities, the less likely I would be invited for future gatherings.

The next day was Canada Day, when we would be free off work and took the chance to stay a bit late. We had a good meal, took a walk along the street, and sat down for a light drinks during the night. The group consisted of five, 2 guys and 3 girls, later joined by 1 more girl. The target of my desire was in this group. After we finished our drinks at the last stop, we headed back to the car where one driver drove two of us to the subway station.

After I finished my beer, I knew I had to go the washroom. For some reason, I decided to not hold up the group as we headed for the car. I thought I would be able to hold it in at least to the subway station. It would be me and my affected girl getting off there and travel together on the subway. As we were walking through the subway station, I was looking for a washroom. To my great dismay, there were none. By the time we got to the platform, I needed to go rather badly. I asked the girl whether she would wait if I had to go out of the station to find a washroom. Understandably, it was getting late, and she would rather catch the next train. I fled back up the stairs to ask the ticket vendor whether any such facilities were available. I knew the trains were coming, and the girl would be gone.

I was told there were none there. Hurriedly I made my way back to the platform, when I heard the sound of the next train approaching. I manicly dashed down the stairs in an attempt to catch the train, not wanting to be left behind without even saying goodbye. To my huge relief I barely made it into the train just in time. I looked through the car I was in for the girl. She wasn’t in here. I knew, based on where we were standing previously, she was most likely in this car or the next one beside it.

The cars on the train were not interconnecting for passengers. At the next stop, I jumped out of my current car and entered the next one. I started to walk my way down and quickly found the girl sitting at the seat. I approached, she looked up, and was quite surprised to see me. I sat down beside her and laughed about my close encounter.

As I was walking up, before she saw me, she was starting to put on her headphones. She left them off as we sat there and shared slight conversation. As the stations ticked by, I knew my time was running out. Here was my perfect opportunity I was waiting for to say what I needed to say. My heart sped up for one moment, then settled down as I readied myself. As the speakers announced the next transfer station stop we would be getting off at, I turned towards her and said softly, “I promised myself I would say this the next time I had the chance. I like you a lot.”

I was barely looking at her, but I seemed a sense of surprise. She responded, “I like you too.” I couldn’t tell if she thought I was drunk and meant it as a reassuring gesture of friendship, but for now I will assume that’s what it was. I was so caught up that I nearly forgot I too had to transfer trains, and that we would be leaving the car together. Luckily she reminded me and we got off.

Interrupted by the shift in focus, some conversation about the nuances of the subway stations ensued. Keep in mind right now, I still had to use the bathroom badly. I followed the signs to the nearest washroom, and I headed quickly for it once I found it, wishing she would be nearby when I got out. I stood at the urinal, and to my great annoyance, my urination volume was rather substantial, as is the case when you have had to delay the urge for a bit. I was squeezing it out as fast as I could, knowing that by the next train arrival, the girl would be gone. It just keeping pouring out seemingly without end. Finally the drops slowed, I zipped up, and ran out onto the platform.

I scanned the platform for the girl. This was the location of her transfer (not mine). I walked down the station quickly to look for her, but did not see her. I considered perhaps she had also used the bathroom herself; there wasn’t much place to hide if she was indeed getting on this next car.

I was unable to find her, and was saddened by my chance to say goodbye. I stood for there for a bit at the most likely position I would expect her to be, looking. Soon I could hear the sound of her train approaching. I scanned the crowd one more time and could see her in one of the lineups waiting to board. I waved at her, but she didn’t. My thoughts raced quickly – my final window was closing quick. I briskly walked up to her place. She got on the car. By the time I got to the doors, everyone had boarded. It took me a moment to spot where she had settled. She was sitting in the seats right by the door. As the sounds for door closing warnings rang, I called out her name. I did not want to board and go in to meet her, as this was not my train. She looked around for the source that had called her name. By the time she spotted me outside, the doors were closed and she say me through the glass. I smiled and waved one more time. This time her reaction I was unable to read well, as the moment was very brief, but I know she saw me.

Once the train started moving, I began walking myself in the other direction. In general, the chances dealt by fate are agonizing. But once in a while, circumstances actually do happen as people wish for them to. I was greatly pleased by my fortune that night. I headed over to my own platform direction, with a grin on my face. I was proud of what I did, even though in the end it was inconclusive. I could always clarify things later, and at least it wasn’t outright rejection. The train pulled up and I put on my own headphones. I was whisked off into the night, hoping my impression was favourable. Right now, I was content with baby steps.