Man vs. Reason

November 30, 2013

Is it possible to be happy more than once?

No, immediately the answer comes, no you cannot. In fact how can one be happy when to be happy you must understand so many things about you, about the human condition, about the thing by which you make decisions and through which you can learn to let go of the pains and troubles of this world. Surely it is only when you have grok’ed all these in the fullness, will you find happiness and it shall find you. Until then, friend reader, seek and learn and contemplate, evaluate the facts and take solace in sweets and tree leaf shapes. And pretty songs. But to expect more than this .. no, more than this there is nothing except the truth, that one ultimate truth which might take a lifetime to uncover, which will make you finally content. So is it possible to be happy more than once? .. well, apparently not more than once. And even to get a single happy moment out of life would be a nice surprise by this reasoning :)

And yet, contrary to the sound logic, like paint, happiness colors our reality. Think the smell of first rain in the air, or sunshine. Some have it frequent them every Sunday morning, some on holidays. Some would feel happy upon conquering a video game, and then few years later they will find it again, in a tent on a beach, or at home with a bite of cheese. Happy persons go about feeling lovely and entirely ignorant of the meaninglessness of existence. In fact, some secretly know about that, but sadly do not care even the slightest bit.


And is it possible to love more than once?

Well of course not. How can one love anything, when life is so random that assigning value to anything is meaningless, much less to more than one subject. And say, say there was a thing to love in this gray world – perhaps that one true love, or that one life long dream – could there be two of such, could love be shared? After all, love is passion, love is fire, it takes firm hold of the senses and there is no room for thought of other pleasures – of mind or otherwise. Could you love more than once then? Alas, but looks like no.

And yet again, reality confronts us. Here and there, brave individuals learn how to juggle passions from one subject to the next. Of course they would. Many years and many tales, all lead us to the inevitable conclusion that life is too short to spend on one love. To carry but one metaphorical egg in such large basket is clearly an underachievement. One best optimize. In fact, some go as far as bringing passion and love to any act they undertake, whether a job, a partner, kids or hobbies. Love is there, coming forth from the individual, changing form on action basis. May be it’s not the same for each case but it is there still .. manufactured with a little help, but no less real.

And so, as expected, rationality is defeated once more by empirical evidence.

Until next time, cruel world!






Sometimes as philosophers, we have a strong urge to ask questions. Sharp questions that aim to rip this world apart with logic, math and word play we call reason. Unfortunately, reality does not handle these well. Many a structured question have thus fallen – squished senselessly underneath the clumsy wheels of realitys’ crude cart. But bear in mind, o sensible reader – science demands no less.



October 1, 2013

It was night when they all gathered.

Amidst a small clearing in the woods they came out of the thicket one by one and sat themselves down – a little boy, a trickster, a block of ice, a bear, an ant, a bowl of warm water and some salt, a wolfling, a whirlwind, a pomegranate sapling and an old woman.

Trickster clapped his hands with a fancy gesture and a spark flew into the air from out his fingers for a moment lighting this strange scene with a yellow-red light. The old woman chuckled at this, she picked up a dry log from where she sat and tossed it toward the center of the clearing and near the water bowl (which startled, moved itself and the salt a bit away). Seizing the moment, whirlwind caught the last of tricksters’ spark and faster than any could see sled it smoothly through the air and onto the log. A fire started.

Bear stepped into the center, his shape towering in the flame shadows. He cleared his old throat. “We have gathered here today ..” he started. Now trickster chuckled, catching himself as the ant shot a reproaching look at him. Bear cleared his throat again. “We have gathered here today” it repeated “to collaborate on a shared interest” “Making a man”.


“Wait, someone’s missing” said the boy.

“I’m here” came a voice out of the darkness.

The wolfling snarled.

Artist stepped into the clearing. In his hands he was gently holding a flower bud. “I saw this tree” he told the group, seemingly ignoring what all was happening just before he spoke, “amazing! See it had such beautiful flowers, I had to bring some here”

The wolfling let out an angry growl and artist stopped talking. His eyes moved away from the flower and met each of the group members. Carefully he set down the bud and sat silently beside it. The yellow gaze of the wolfling shifted back to the center of the clearing where bear was just about to continue.


His voice carried words of an ancient ritual –

“You who are here. You all know, there will be days when sun will fill his eyes and he will be blind of you and deaf of your words”

“There will be nights when moon will make him dance and rip away the ties he has to you”

“There will be days when he will give up on this life we are about to give him. He will then run, as a scared child, to hide in the shadow of others. He will not remember you then. He will push you away and avert his eyes”

“You who are here. You all will be there when these days come. You will be there to witness his fall, his humiliation. You will watch as he struggles and as he cries. You will be silent and he will not know you for what you are. Every day he will forget you. You shall receive no thanks, no gratitude. Your words will go unheeded, your advice ignored, and in his great moments he will not call out any of your names but only his own.”

“You who are here, do you accept these terms?”

One by one the group members gave their agreement.

“Boy” the bear said turning to the child who was now playing with dry twigs and blades of grass. “You will lead”, the boy lifted his head to look at the bear and nodded.

“It is done”, said bear.

The fire flashed and went out.


On the subject of water and cats.
She walks slowly. Her raincoat is spread out by the wind in a tight dancing cone round her small frame. No, she does not look as one in search of something. Neither does she resemble one in a deep contemplative state,  blocking wind and visage with comforting thoughts of warm weather and foods.

She walks slow with soft steps and a serene face, looking up the trail and occasionally lending  side glances at the road – some dirty snow piled up where tourists and birds had been. As her feet reach the edge where gravel becomes snow she steps on, you couldn’t say if this at all is easy on her or was there a slight change in her breathing. One couldn’t say (though vapor science might).

For a while she climbs so, slowly upwards along the snowy path now trickling beneath her feet and the noon day sun. Then she pauses abruptly and bends down. In front of her there is a crevice in the ice and silent as before she peers into it.

A puddle of ice-blue adorns the small crack, and beneath, tiny walls of ice and snow transparently shape bluish tunnels and halls. They waver slightly as wind blows tiny waves in this blue mini pond. The noon day sun politely knocks but is denied an audience, though one could see a crack or two where it sparkles on the submarine steeps of ice, melting them in the process.

She takes off one glove, touches the puddle. Serene, as the blue ice water ripples, one couldn’t say if she had been touched as well. If this at all is anything to her or she is but a statue – a piece of scenery materialized. But there she crouches for a while, eyes peering into the small blue crack as rays of light play games across the swaying water making it shrink and grow as cello plays. Out there and then if one were to measure time by the ripples of her movement one would scarcely get a sandful away.  And as it happens, time isn’t there at all, there’s only water, and cats.


Out there and then, at this point of the story I’d recommend to stop reading. Sit cozily down and pour time away into some crevice under the ice. I recommend it still – to me and to you wise reader, though for me that time it was not to be

In little while it would tell me Or
Or I could say, wake up you.
To myself.
This is an illusion can’t you see,  a trick of the light. Surely you can tell, another could have seen this in a different light. An introvert perhaps, tired, bored. A science woman, geologist on the prowl. Another would deduce – from haircut and shoe laces – the personality traits – with 65 per cent accuracy and a twist of story telling.

Many eyes and many visions. Through colored specks, through molds and mirrors. We carry, they take their shapes. Could one ever escape these fantom companions, one ones’ illusions. Do we need to?

Friend Buddhist? You’re silence at this cold hour is self explanatory.

For me, I do not even wish to try. A trick of light so be it as it is. Keep it on, light plays damn funny tricks sometimes.
Romantics.. (phew..) How typical.

The human condition, it hears it’s name called out loud and whisps into the air. It knows of us dear friend. It marked us on our backs with tiny strands of chocolate you see. Romantics. When we were young that is (or may be somewhat older). And now it chuckles as one or other mumbles their jumbled moontalk at the moon, as pretty colors make us turn about in startled ecstasy, pouring words where words cannot describe and silence is too quiet, where brains are useless and senses whisper dark sweet lightnings. Blissfully It giggles (for it has similar markings) and tosses another handful of pixie dust into the fire.


August 17, 2013

What does it mean “to tame”? (an act too often neglected)
Said the fox – it means “to establish ties” .. “to me you will be unique in all the world. To you I shall be unique in all the world” .. “please tame me” said the fox.

How many days since this little story came about. I think careless reader, I think still we don’t pay much heed to words of the fox, neglecting, ignoring the act of taming, as chances come and go in life. “Please tame me” says the fox. Uncommon as it may be. Would you ask this of someone, friend reader? To say “my life is very monotonous. I hunt chicken. Men hunt me. All the chicken are just alike and all the men are just alike. And in consequence,  I am a little bored”
Or even, would you oblige should fox come to you and ask for the same? How many foxes do indeed each day each moment passing.

“For it is possible for a man to be faithful and lazy at the same time”, says the book, to answer this question.


They may gather as raindrops, the countless moments of this world, countless and beautiful, all pretty and same yet each one special, and freefall together, they disappear unnoticed, first in sense and then in memory. Would you extend a courtesy and tame one calm reader? Would I? As a gushing waterfall they flow out of reach by the myriad and yet it should seem that every one has the potential to make one cry or laugh.. who knows. one could but keep one lazy eye open for opportunities :-)




You guessed right friend reader, somewhat ashamed I must admit that it is only now I read this book. Long due. (Traveling has this effect sometimess) And whether years lived by without fox’ revelations could have turned more colorful a spectacle had I been more dutiful in school days past, alas the laziness of imagination, it worries me not as much.

Funky Cubes

July 21, 2013

come, walk with me


I have a good mood love.


yes. people are smiling

you cynic

no love, smiles, no, really, typically, maybe, yes you could catch me at times .. but not now. come! walk with me a while. I’ll help you carry these.

where do you go?

not sure, but we go the same way, at least for now. you walk so fast, must you really?


so tell me you weirdo. whats up with the happy attitude?

hh, weirdo, he smiles to himslef. not sure. to tell you the truth must there be a reason to be like this. must there be a reason to not be like this. tell me friend, why do you walk so fast?

I guess I’ve got somewhere to be and I’m going there

but why so fast?

that’ just my regular walk.

oh well. and what if you slow down for a second

why should I?

no reason, could you?

here, see I can stop. now can we go?




what did you take?

me?, nothing


you know, this feeling, its like I am on top of the world and everything’s great and every thing is going my way – see even you couldn’t resist my happy-charms. but it’s not enough, I want more. I need to punch something. I want to sing my lungs off. I need to dance on the streets, not just walk.

no, don’t start to sing please.

I’m not going to. see that’s the trouble. I’d like to but happy as I am, still I’m not going to. I think that privilege is only meant for kids.

come. she takes him by the hand. begins to whistle a sweet melody. “Hom pa doo, Hom pa doo, “Hom pa doo” “Hom pa doo” .. I’m singing this with my nieces

whats it called? he asks smiling

what do you think

No, I wouldn’t sing on the street, all these people

you wanted it and now you got it friend. what with all your happy charm and now you’re going to walk away? .. she whistles.. Hom pa doo, Hom pa doo, trickly funny rum pa doo. Hom pa doo, Hom padoo, sweetly jolly home padoo.

he joins, Hom padoo, Hom padoo, brumbr boo de rum padoo, not knowing the words, Hom padoo, Hompadoo, where’s you droopy phone padooo. Hom padoo, Hom padooOO. their voices rise a bit too loud and people stop and turn, but he lets it ring now as a smile spread across his face. he is getting into the persona of a jolly drunkard prowling around the street ” padoo. ..”

they reach a crossing.

I’m that way, she says

thank you. says he



So many drafts

July 17, 2013

On a dirty road, I encountered a fish.

Alone, with dust flying by and dry voices of a distant wind. With a puzzled look about it, it sat blinking on a sidewalk flexing its’ fishy scales and muscles. The air was humid and warm, the fish looked out of place to me, I thought of home. It noticed me as well but as often are poetic fish, it had no doubt and other things on its’ mind.

It took me then a while to understand what dream this is – the fish was trying to breathe.

Why don’t you breathe, I thought, explaining how with a grand gesture. But then, I couldn’t. My mouth opened, then closed, again, nothing, I poked me in the chest, raised the head a bit, flexed the shoulders, turned a half way. Slipped my mind just so. Forgot.

Still on another road at night, a car pulled slowly out of a parking space. Before it, three girls came out of the darkness. Three, in white dresses, side by side. At first they stood and then in slow determined wavy motion, like spreading ink, they moved in line towards the car. A strange spectacle. I took with me a gulp of air at that. Left with the vision wheels rolled in silence. Out of the dim, three white plastic road blocks materialized and were gone, in the dim again. Left with the vision.

Behind it, on a sunny day, an old mental patient sat readily on a bench in front of sunny playground and a small building in which his dream – so he believed – will come to life at last. A sunny sound of laughter came from the playground and he thought he heard a noise. His old feet tensed, he started, quickly straightening his hat and back. Stood up. Picked up his briefcase and neatly folded the paper into his pocket pants. Attentively, he glanced a long glance at the door. A long attentive glance. A moment passed. Across the road where he now stood, there came-a-walking sunny breeze. With leaves and pollen and a distant chirp of bluebirds. The man decided to sit down. Just this one minute and then I go, he nodded to himself, laying the notebook back down on the bench.

It is a chore. Why write, I wonder if you ask, preoccupied reader. Why even try. So many drafts what for you may be wondering or I. For beauty I don’t need no words. Perhaps a waterfall, a lake, or snow or rain, a picture of a friend or just a picture, or just a friend. A simple line would suffice, a smudge of paint, a pretty face, a tree, let me but look. Eyes need much less. Ears need so much less than words.

There, on a dry humid sidewalk the wind blew dust across. Off blades of yellow grass and patches of now hardened tire tracks. Covering the lonely street, a veil of slowly flying sand would start and lay down again in rhythmic jazz formations. Behind the veil, on one of the rooftops a distant sun lay still, hiding from the streets, observing what goes on below, in quiet worry and anticipation. The wind blew still, evening was coming about. There, on a dry humid sidewalk I encountered a stop sign. Strange, I thought, why would anyone stop here.


March 3, 2013

Live, she says, Live! You are entitled to.

Let nothing hold you back. Bring your passion, bring your fears, your joys.

Laugh, you are entitled too. Not only I. We are all born equal. Be angry, I don’t mind, just Live dammit. She pounds your chest. Live. We are all born equals, all special, dance if you like. You are entitled to all the joy. We all are and so you are too. Break, smash whatever you want, but be here, here. I know you can, I’ve seen it, I have been there when you, I have seen the light in your eyes, I have witnessed your laughter, you cannot fool me now Live.

She gives you love. And kindness. What else you need she will seek and bring for you to face. They pass in front of you as air.

Live dammit, she says frustrated, you are holding yourself back. I know you can push through, I’ve seen you. You’ve got so many choices, all better than where you are now. And even this, embrace it if you like, just Live dammit, make a move, breathe, go out. Be what you already are, allow yourself to let go, I will be here.

She gives you kindness. She gives you hands. She gives you beauty.

But you, you are a magnet now.

Your sense of sight of smell of touch, all lost to you. No need of sight for a magnet. It only wants to pull and pull again. And so you do, inside, all parts and logics, shrink to gather, inside, in all its singularity, strong forces press on it from all directions, huddled, self borrows, compact and dense, looking only in. You are a magnet now. You noticed not and now you are.

Live, she reaches you again. Why don’t you live. What, why, tell me. We can go through this. There is nothing you, we, cannot overcome. She reaches love to you, with fingers warm. You want to help but you are a magnet now. Grey. Dense and compact. Looking in. Behind you, a wall of iron and you are firmly pressed. Now, no love, no kindness could move you. Had you a mouth .. no, magnets do not have them.




What does it need, a magnet?

You don’t need love. You don’t need kindness. They pass in front of you as air. Food, flowers. As air they pass. What do you need?




Do not approach a magnet. It is pointless.

But if you wish to help, perhaps it will need a rope, a ladder. Some thing to pry it off the wall.

It could be a stream – a stream of unimportant words, a stream of minutes, a stream of pictures and sounds, or a stream of faces.

With each, it will then warm and soften, the rigid particles would slowly sway and shake their furry ends in dance. Gradually they will want to push out and break formation, spreading, sliding, down and up and sideways, all about the iron wall.

Before you the magnet will then slowly dissolve, mended into the air with the next passing breeze. It might need kindness then ..


Yesterday, a friend shared a drive with me home. We started talking.

He said, I am a chess player.

Well, not some expert. My dad taught me the rules when I was a small kid and I never played much since. Till now. Now, as I recently started playing, I am able to appreciate the beauty of the game. Amazing how it takes place only on a 8 by 8 field.

Intrigued, I asked for more detail.

Do you like confrontations? he asked.

Hmm, I started.

I thought so, he stopped me. In this, you and I are alike. But see, no matter your disposition, when you start a game of chess, you know there will be a winner, and a loser. The rules are such. You might not like it, you may wish to avoid this if your opponent makes you uncomfortable being competitive, but if you finally do sit down to play your first move, then you know it will be either you or your opponent. The game, you see, has forced you to shed the fragile ego and think to win.

Why play then, I thought.

He seemed to take on this and smiled. Yea friend, it’s true that winning has its fun and some like it more than others. Had it only been that, I wouldn’t be playing – like you I am not the competitive type. But for me I think, the fun lies in the beauty of the game. Seeing how it evolves – each move with its own intent, and both minds following a path together to the end. Both play their best and with the same purpose. The means are well known and the board is just 8 by 8. So small. Often you play a move with double or triple effect – defend a piece and at the same time attacking. Sometimes you make a move without a concrete plan – strategic position improvement, later in the game you see it manifest into a solid advantage, you may think this a coincidence if the same happens on your opponents side but you can never know. You battle, exchange blows, sometimes you win, sometimes you lose but if you lose, you recognize the superior position of your opponent or the mistake you made which led you to it.

And also the pieces. Not like checkers or other games with same-kind of soldiers.Variety is there in chess.There are different types, each with its own strengths, its own weaknesses,  Making sure you use each as fits it best. And if you do, they will tie together as you play. One backing up the other. Like an elegant machine.

You would think through your next moves and watch it play out just like you expect. The thrill will fall on you then. Anticipation. Sometimes you watch with silent screams of joy as your opponent moves just as you had anticipated, falls into all your traps, and you proceed. Other times he will make a mistake and you find yourself in a superior position much sooner than expected. And more often than not, it will be you on the surprised end. The enemy makes an unexpected move – he also thinks things through you see. And then it is you who must sweat and run for it. But both of you enjoy, so much so, that describing it in words cannot do it justice.

That’s how it goes, sorry if I’m boring you.

We drove in silence for a while.

Lately .. I heard him mutter.

Sorry what, I asked.

Lately, he said, it feels different.

What does? I asked.

Everything. Life, I guess.(I turned down the radio somewhat)

It feels, like this is all one huge variation of a chess game. I need but put a little thought to it and then it is apparent.

What do you mean? I asked

Everything, it seems, not just what I do but many events that transpire in my life seemingly random, it’s as if each had been a well placed chess move. I can see these events flow and gradually form structure.

He turned to me.

Thought, you see, it moves constantly, emotions as well, relationships, knowledge, beauty. Our whole is constantly shifting and adjusting, from one state to another so that it becomes hard to keep track. But if I stop and look, it’s easy for me to see correlations with the past – like some invisible hand is making strategic moves, pushing me in some direction. I see the events tie together like a series of chess moves. And those are not my doings. Random encounters, misplaced words, chance overhearings. Each adding a small piece, a light push in some direction and those directions are all directions I wanted to explore, something of interest that now is being pushed from the corner of my mind into reality by these chance events. If it were a chess game, it would be as if a plan was made but not by me – I don’t have to plan much – the series of moves are arranged not by my hand but still in such a way that I am guaranteed to enjoy the game – I just bring in the objective, take the credit and get the fun of playing it in the process.


How does it feel? I asked, or thought it to myself.

I think it happiness in those moments.

There seems no better description of that feeling, although I used to think that happiness was a state and not a momentarily thrill. But as I am going about my day, some small small thing would take place and suddenly, all this floods my awareness and a wave of joy and exhilaration runs me over. Hard to keep it at bay. As if I’d just won an opponents piece, or won the entire game. Some clever player had played a fine play and now it remains only to look back and marvel at the brilliance of the sequence. All is clear, nothing needs adjustment. Only curiosity remains, to see what next is in store for you.


He stopped talking.

I turned up the music. We were near his home now. Some people went outside with serious faces.

The song ended.

I stopped the car near his home.

So what’s with the pirate costume? I asked, but he was already out the door.






A Quote

February 8, 2013

From one of my favorite books


A thing happens once that has never happened before. Seeing it, a man looks upon reality. He cannot tell others what he has seen. Others wish to know, however, so they question him saying, ‘What is it like, this thing you have seen?’ So he tries to tell them. Perhaps he has seen the very first fire in the world. He tells them, ‘It is red, like a poppy, but through it dance other colors. It has no form, like water, flowing everywhere. It is warm, like the sun of summer, only warmer. It exists for a time upon a piece of wood, and then the wood is gone, as though it were eaten, leaving behind that which is black and can be sifted like sand. When the wood is gone, it too is gone.’ Therefore, the hearers must think reality is like a poppy, like water, like the sun, like that which eats and excretes. They think it is like to anything that they are told it is like by the man who has known it. But they have not looked upon fire. They cannot really know it. They can only know of it. But fire comes again into the world, many times. More men look upon fire. After a time, fire is as common as grass and clouds and the air they breathe. They see that, while it is like a poppy, it is not a poppy, while it is like water, it is not water, while it is like the sun, it is not the sun, and while it is like that which eats and passes wastes, it is not that which eats and passes wastes, but something different from each of these apart or all of these together. So they look upon this new thing and they make a new word to call it. They call it ‘fire.’
“If they come upon one who still has not seen it and they speak to him of fire, he does not know what they mean. So they, in turn, fall back upon telling him what fire is like. ‘As they do so, they know from their own experience that what they are telling him is not the truth, but only a part of it. They know that this man will never know reality from their words, though all the words in the world are theirs to use. He must look upon the fire, smell of it, warm his hands by it, stare into its heart, or remain forever ignorant. Therefore, ‘fire’ does not matter, ‘earth’ and ‘air’ and ‘water’ do not matter. ‘I’ do not matter. No word matters. But man forgets reality and remembers words. The more words he remembers, the cleverer do his fellows esteem him. He looks upon the great transformations of the world, but he does not see them as they were seen when man looked upon reality for the first time. Their names come to his lips and he smiles as he tastes them, thinking he knows them in the naming. The thing that has never happened before is still happening. It is still a miracle. The great burning blossom squats, flowing, upon the limb of the world, excreting the ash of the world, and being none of these things I have named and at the same time all of them, and this is reality — the Nameless.



January 16, 2013

In a mine field, one can sometimes find a flower.

Such is kindness.

Daily, the universe would expand a trillion miles outwards.

Not so the tiny frame through which one is used to watch ones life go by. Out this warm blanket, we see but a few things change from day to day. People come and go, coffee shops change owners, things grow and grow wild, oceans melt. It is there, on the smaller scope, where we find it – friend mind – stranded, doomed to face this seemly lack of variety for many many minutes no end.

Standing here, on the shores of reason, in a stance resembling titans of old, it faces the strange music of change coming from without. Folding folding and folding again, the craftsman, it pulls ashore faces and events, colors and brands, it does take even time itself into its’ divine plan and collect it to its’ purpose – as if it were a piece of cheese – conducting the beautiful symphony of deduction.

Busy it is. Indeed. Were you to ask, it would say  –

“True, my unexpected visitor friend. You might be seeing me here as a well polished lunatic. But you are wrong. The situation – it serious indeed. Sure, five – ten years back, I’d prance around just like you, here on the shores of consciousness, I’d lift my palms full of sandmud and throw it out as far as mind can reach into the vast ocean before us. And see it splash as it hits. And laugh and breathe my fullest. But those days are past my friend. Those are no longer steps I recognize. My ladder now is elsewhere and as you see, I am not idling.”

It will at that spread out its arms and point you proudly – there along the shore it has piled up several heaps. Tall, as tall as man they stand, facing the waterline. And busy mind, even while we talk, it takes few more events and folds them neatly into one pile or the other. “Good” and “Bad” are largest piles. Good – this is a label for a pleasant feeling and Bad – this usually implies a scary thing. There are other, smaller piles as well.

“Here” – it shows to you and a mischievous smile spreads across minds face as it picks up from one of the heaps. “This look here”, it explains how it figured out on that particular item – “.. see I knew there was something wrong with him ..”, it picks it up from Bad-pile, “.. something just wasn’t right and this” – it slowly shows how transpired the event that proved it all to be indeed Bad – “.. see here ..”. Then it tosses it back onto the pile. “You wouldn’t believe” it says, “the things out there”. You notice Bad pile is by far the highest.


It works meticulously, with serious stance and glance. You notice as sometimes it rolls its head in disappointment of itself for failing to classify some item that reaches its clever senses. Other times, as it shrewdly predicts in order not one but several items at once into the Bad-pile, it sometimes forgets itself dazzled by its’ own magnificence, and lets out an unprotected yelp of joy. So it works. This is the ladder it has found. For situation serious indeed. This life. Folding and folding again.


If one is not too careful.

One might turn a corner and find himself.

Face to face with a kind gesture.


On such occasions, it is mind, that steps out first. Forward to protect. Clad in battle armor, with not even a bow of acknowledgement to its’ opponent it moves right into attack mode. As a blob from cartoon past, it spreads out – so much that it is hard (if possible at all) to follow its intricate movements with the naked eye – so quick it stabs. In all directions. The purpose is of course clear. Mind knows there is so much wrong here in this, this kind act. Inside it screams with hefty intuitions. If only it could find a crack, a misdeed, a telling word, one clue that would nail down this gesture as a fraud – classification reached. To put it away and with pride lock it out forever. There are no free lunches it knows.

But try and try, no crack. No peephole, no visible entrance.

Still there, in front of it, awaiting a response, the deed is. Unguarded. Perfect, as a buttered egg. Shiny and round. No dark side can it find (the mind), no loser in this game. (Oh no, the loser might not even be I, it shouts inside, some other unsuspecting victim perhaps, here let me look around to find). But no again. No victims. No subtle pain induced, no hidden strings that can be revealed. Just doer and receiver. A simple act of kindness. How many of them has it seen?

Aah but this is not to the liking of the battle worn (the mind). Not to its liking at all. But to and again it strikes and cannot find a flaw. Again it reasons and again.


And hopefully, after a while, bruised and tired of self beating, the soul would finally look up.

Surprise, a gust of wind.

Slow in its awakening at first, the soul will turn its head aside from where it has been bashing it and stare in wonderment. No thoughts. As one preparing for an exam receiving an unexpected kiss. Suspicion melts, prospect of danger dwindles. At once it is suddenly too late. Mind trips and falls helplessly into the open space where certainty had been. One finds himself, eyes open, in front of the clearest view, with splendid resolution. Such kindness, just like a work of art. For some, this is the way rainbows are.

A simple act of kindness, is all it takes.

It matters not, what feels the one who did the kind thing. In similar to how it matters not how painter felt, it likely is a story of its own. It matters not what you do with it – as much as it is up to you whether to listen again to the song you like or not – results would anyway be different.

But so it seems we move. From one piece of beauty to another. With kindness being one of many instruments available. To touch, to dazzle minds into lovely paradoxes, to bring them about into a new breath. Creating a door for another to step through or to walk yourself through such a door, opened by another. A simple act of kindness is all it takes.








A simple way to do a simple act of kindness is such –

step 1. obtain a muffin

step 2. unprovoked, offer it to someone other than yourself.