On Dreams and Other Existential Conundrums

          And now you open your eyes. And now you’re awake. And then the conscious part of your day starts, too. There is a dancing light filled with flaky dust particles that penetrates deep into your window. Its warmth is undeniable. The day seems to be reaching out to you. The immediate future sounds auspicious, or at least that’s what the weather lady leads you to believe. A short moment later, you ignore her predictions because, as you’ve seen it on previous occasions, she just gets paid to play with your optimism. You shower, you get dressed and finally get ready to go out there to grind for half a day.

          You spend the following 8 -10 hours invested in a very particular state of mind where everything you are asked to do seems to be conspiring against your master plan of dozing off. You pray for the hours to die soon, as you despise the clock face with a passion that is usually credited to prominent religious figures. The present dies again, and again, and again, as the plain hands of that infamous, time-telling device just keep on turning. The torture is over. It is time to go. You are now filled with a new sort of energy, a kind of nourishing substance that feeds your interior with exquisite anticipation.

          You now get to the car. The energy evaporates like ethyl alcohol. You’re passing out. You manage to get home safely. You get off the car and, as you open the door so that you come into the house, you feel a softly mannered sense of accomplishment padding your shoulders, as if the wind itself were trying to congratulate for surviving yet another day. That feeling, too, soon dissipates. You are home. You nap. You wake up. You have dinner. You watch T.V. You go to your bedroom. You go to the bathroom and you brush your teeth. You hit the bed. You pass out. The end.

The Persistence of Memory - Salvador Dali

Repeat cycle (weather may vary).

Repeat again.

Stop.

Fuck this.

You wake up.

Stop.

Were you dreaming?

          
          You open your eyes. You feel but cannot see; there is no color, no light. Your eyes go on full tilt as they continue to see nothing, your pupils dilate with no success; the darkness around you is inescapable. You go back to feeling, and what you feel is overwhelmingly making its presence more and more palpable. You feel the fear in the back of your neck. Your senses become as susceptible as an open wound. No images, only tact and textures adorning your imagination. Suddenly, you forget about reality, you forget about which world you are in and, most importantly, you feel as if there is no conflict between these antithetical worlds. A dichotomy is created, a line as thick as gossamer now separates your previous visions of the world. No such thing as being conscious or unconscious - you are the moment.

          You feel. And you feel until your entire body is nothing but a feeling. There is peace in this newfound realm. There are no bars, no walls, and no limits, only feelings. But now you see something swelling in the distance, a glowing spot that can’t really be looked upon directly. You are now thinking, thinking about what you feel, and you feel that there is something terribly wrong with whatever awaits you outside of this dimension.

          The problem soon becomes evident, and that problem is that there are no limits, only self-defeating illusions that chain you to a post as you stare into the horizon of possibility. You get used to the post, and to the chain that contains you and, in an effort to deflect pain, you simply accept this repressing condition as nothing more than a rule to which you have to comply. You conform to rules and to limitations that tell you to stop feeling.

          And then you grow more and more frustrated; you feel that the moments are to be spent in rituals of grateful compliance, for you think that what you feel is completely illogical and therefore you repress it by squeezing hard until there is no more resistance.

          You are scared of change; you are frightened by the idea of complying with non-compliance. But what scares you the most is that if you actually do fight these besetting conditions then everything you know will be torn to pieces; you need of this comfort, you need familiarity and repetition. You need all of these things because they have you floating, and you see it too. This is the framework of your life; this is the prison of your life.

          The room is dark. No light paints the walls, no colors to look at, nor any signs of physical confinement due to the simple fact that you cannot see anything but the harsh black screen that stands perpetually in front of you. You go back to feeling. And you now start sweating. You feel the dampness of the bed sheets, and you feel the slight stir of the air around you. Soon enough, there is little to feel. Suddenly, a muffled horn cries from far away, echoing from unfathomed distances. The sound eventually becomes more apparent. Its presence grows more and more persistent. There is something really frightening about it, a somewhat shrilling quality that makes its persistent presence more and more real. You try to make sense out of this pathetic noise and, in a fraction of a second, you finally understand - you make some sense out of it all.

         Now you’re entire body is flushed right back into reality. You are shoved through a tube and pinched back into the world you claim to live in.

         And now you open your eyes. And now you’re awake. And then the conscious part of your day starts, too. There is a dancing light filled with flaky dust particles that penetrates deep into your window. Its warmth is real. The day seems to be reaching out to you. The immediate future sounds auspicious, or at least that’s what the weather lady leads you to believe. A short moment later, you ignore her predictions because, as you’ve seen it on previous occasions, she just gets paid to play with your optimism. You shower, you quickly get dressed and finally get ready to go out there and think for the rest of your day.

It’s ok, it doesn’t matter what it was. But then again, what was it about change??

Dreams: A Brief* Note

          I have come to realize, soon enough I presume, that I am neither as old nor as incompetently famous as I should be in order to write a memoir yet. Let us just say that not enough water has passed under my bridge. Hell, let us just really say that I don’t think I’ve even started to build the stupid bridge yet, never mind the water. But anyway, I have come to the realization that I’m not as qualified as I should be in order to write a memoir.

Click on the link for more information on "In These Times."

          I say should (yes, I write, not say, believe me I know! Just bear with me…) simply because nobody would listen to the words of a young fiddler; hypothetically, there is no legitimacy in his tale, no real substance, no tact. Blues singers would growl at me saying I haven’t paid my dues yet and, sure enough, they would be right.  But this is not a matter of whether I should or shouldn’t anymore, it is just a matter of whether I can or cannot do it. And that, my fellow friends, is a whole different monster altogether.

          So here I am, ready to unleash the spiel. Fed up, already frustrated, and armed with the purported liberties of free time. But why do I saturate this transparent medium with my almost idiotic rambling, time and time again, you may ask? Well, folks, the answer is simple. Because I believe that we all have dreams – really crazy dreams, that is – which need to be fulfilled, or at least pursued with absolute conviction. So again, why do I do this? Well, because I want us all to go bananas and just work towards the fulfillment of those dreams.

          I know, I know, it seems highly idealistic and painfully predictable at best for a young adult to be so optimistic and full of hope; eventually, I will suffer better things in life but, as of this particular moment, I simply can’t help myself. So, without further ado, let me serve you this philosophical dish accordingly.  I promise to be brief (as the title implies, duh).

          The distance between a man and his dream is the man.

          Yeah, it’s so simple, so basic, and so fundamental that I even feel like it needs no further elaboration. If you want something, then it is completely up to you to fetch it. Screw luck, forget about chance and just take fear and all of its stupefying army for a dance. Sure enough, you will notice how gratifying it is to do nothing else but the one thing you love.  It doesn’t matter how well you do it as long as you love it with all your heart. And dammit, THAT is what they should teach us in school!

          I must give you, though – and against my very own will – one piece of advice. And as you read this please remember that it is always easier to give advice than it is to take it (by the way, the people who give advice are the ones who need it the most). And if you actually read the previous parenthesis then you’ll realize how contradictory my logic is, and, consequently, how paradoxical our very nature is, too. Oh, life is a daunting study in contradictions. Here, however, is my advice: Do not ever ask anyone other than yourself to believe in you. Why not? Because they cannot see what you see within yourself, and, most importantly, because both your conviction and devotion towards your craft – whatever it may be in your particular case – are what will attract true respect and honest admiration from others, and not your plead for consensual understanding.

          Allow me to clarify. For instance, in my specific case (yeah, I’m an egomaniac), I believe I have found refuge in the art of writing, for in it I see an oasis of expression amidst a windy dessert of deaf, ever-changing dunes. So, you tell me now, who will be able to explain why this practice unravels me so exquisitely? Is it because I love to pretend that I know what I’m talking about? Or, is it maybe that I really don’t, and I’m just pouring all of my tools on top of the wooden table so that you see what I see?

Kurt Vonnegut, a true inspiration.

          In a humble (I’m lying, I’m not humble) effort to be honest I’ll say the following about writing: I write not because I wish to disseminate a cheap lesson on post-college pedantry, but rather, I write because I’m still very curious. I feel like the less we know about something, the more we should learn about it and, incidentally, the less we know of it (repeat cycle numerous times if you wish to go completely crazy). 

          Curiosity is the basis to all successful, pedagogical procedures. And writing is my classroom. I learn as I type. I accept as I discover. I forget as I share.

          My point is we should never give up our dreams because, unfortunately, once we do so, we also give up our curiosity and, as a result, a part of our creativity evaporates, with our imagination being grandly severed. Creativity, my friends, is the key to a not-so-overwhelmingly-pathetic life.

          I really hope you bear with me on this one. I truly hope I never have to write as blatantly and straightforwardly again. I usually enjoy myself much more when I use metaphors and convoluted analogies, and polysyllables. I am a pretentious adept to Wilde’s school of art, and I know aesthetics are to be honored in more sophisticated fashions, for in exaggeration lies the secret of poetry, and in the gardens of poetry rests a secret of blinding beauty. This piece is but a mere reaction, an impulse; a study in contradictions and a lesson in ill-conceived style as well, I suppose. Now, essentially, I guess it all comes down to this: Your dreams (yes, we are still talking about them apparently) will save your life, and your mistakes will make you wise, and knowledge will make you miserable. Use art, enlighten us all with your creativity and with your reactions to life. And please, don't ever stop poking around.

          I’ll leave you all with a quote, potential food for thought, I hope:

          “We are here on Earth to fart around. Don’t let anybody tell you any different.” Thank you, Mr. Vonnegut. Thank you so much.

*I apologize, but since the whole “dreams” topic got so old and boring, I decided to turn this piece into an old man’s growl. Mind this as just some random note. Cheers!

Diogenes and the Honest Man

          Upon the limestone tiles sat the tub where one Diogenes, the philosopher, rested. The scent of hay, slashed and drenched by the unmistakable aroma of filth, decorated the interior of this man-made cocoon with a repelling quality. Onions, beautifully dressed in a thin layer of copper, were lying on the ground, coated in freckles of humid dirt, within almost immediate reach of the philosopher’s right hand in what poorly resembled a pyramid. The lamp, however, stood lit and proud, showing signs of decay around the corners of its very base. Strokes of negligence had corroded the frame of the lamp in blooming nebulas of rusty iron flakes, with nothing but the very wax and wick of the candle to be left unchanged.

          The metallic hairs pouring down from his head and chin distilled a faint smoky fragrance that insinuated a clear disregard for personal hygiene, but, in the end, it was his harsh coal-spotted skin along with his coarse clothes that led one to believe that this man had nothing to live for.

          How deceiving can an image become once a man is convinced of seeing only what he wants to see! One had to just slightly tweak his mind in order to truly appreciate the wisdom in his disguise. Diogenes knew better, for even a brick in all of its insulting simplicity wants to be something else; even a brick, as stiff and irrevocably dull as it may be, may turn into a magnificent monument when a higher idea surrounds it and fills it complete.

          His eyes, one had to just gaze into them to see how rich and powerful this man was. His eyes were like beautiful mantelpieces surrounding a bright, dancing fire which would never cease to burn; like the petals of the hibiscus that curl away in prudent yet flamboyant shapes, exploding in a vibrant, flaming crimson hue. This was a man with an idea within him and, indeed, his idea had already taken over him.

          It is said that Diogenes, an influential member of the school of Cynics, would wander among the streets of Athens while holding a lamp in broad daylight in the search of an honest man. Diogenes’ pivotal principle was to live life in harmony with nature, so that we would never fall in self-deceptive ways. The practical goods, he called them.

          He laughed at men keen on literature and other arts, for they mourned the scars of many characters but neglected their own, and at priests who preached the values of a humble life to the mass for being surrounded by gold and silk; the orator teaches how to enforce truth but never how to practice it. It was hypocrisy and self-deception that he felt great disdain for.

          Actions are to be taken in order to fulfill the principles of any sincere philosophy, for ideas aspire to transcend the merely physical; actions are the statues erected from the virtue of good thought, and from the lack thereof as well. Society tends to bend, with overwhelming pressure perhaps, the endoskeleton of our very own philosophical foundation, but upon its numbing grasp we are to remain true to the essential qualities that make up who we are.

          Diogenes would never falter on his fight against the vulgar sophistications of the social life and the clearest instance is described in the following anecdote of the moment when the philosopher met Alexander III:

Alexander the Great and Diogenes

“The king opened the conversation with "I am Alexander the Great," and the philosopher answered, "And I am Diogenes the Cynic.” Alexander then asked him in what way he could serve him. "You can stand out of the sunshine," the philosopher replied. Alexander was so struck with the Cynic's self-possession that he went away remarking, "If I were not Alexander, I would wish to be Diogenes.”

He who remains true to himself shall always bestow some of its magnificence upon anything surrounding him. 

          This is what true leaders are made of. A concoction made out of self-confidence and an unapologetically burning passion for being themselves.  Alexander the Great did not intimidate Diogenes simply because Diogenes was great himself. Conviction in thyself shall thrust the true power within to run amok. Do not succumb to the pressure of being anything other than yourself, for the true genius is he who recognizes his own truth to be universal.

The Journalistic Revolution

“That is what real revolutions are like. The old stuff gets broken faster than the new stuff is put in its place. The importance of any given experiment is not apparent at the moment it appears; big changes stall, small changes spread. Even the revolutionaries cannot predict what will happen.”

It all makes perfect sense now. At least it does to me. Those petrified faces, intensely full of judgment and evidently full of advice, looking vaguely upon my innocent anatomy as I made my way through the university’s hallway, as if I had decided to march straight into hell. That eerie silence running wild instants after I would tell many a-stranger about my love for journalism and about my bold desire to pursue a career in it. The quick recommendations from already successful professionals who wanted me to become “successful” as well. It all makes sense now. Everyone saw it coming. Everyone. Even myself. I, too, knew this would happen. And no, it wasn’t denial what blinded me from picking a different path, no sir! It was principle. Because I would much rather do what I loved and fight in order to do it profusely than settle for the more convenient, safer path and cut some fat checks. Or at least that was what I told myself at the moment.

I thought integrity and honesty were going to be the main dynamos within my body, so that purpose – provided it was the right one – would let me see through it all with keen modesty and a humble heart. It bothered me immensely that following a most visceral call would be so easily frowned upon simply because of money. I hated money. And I hated the method by which I was being labeled, for I was not going to stand there while being branded with a big, sizzling “NO” simply because of how much money I was going to earn. I didn’t want money to wash away what I really was; I wanted my achievements to remain pure and untainted, I wanted my persona to render the individual who I had drawn in my dreams, night after night, with utmost creativity and unchained, meticulous dedication. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into; little they knew about how it felt to be a writer. But, of course, I should probably just smile now for, crudely so, I knew little to nothing about the world I was foraying into. This story, however, takes a turn (as all stories do); change was going to soak it all with its vibrant waves of disarray (just like you knew it would) and nothing was going to stop its insane manipulative tendrils from fulfilling its duty. Hence, I shall present you with the universal matter of this story, the glue behind it all; a little something we like to call “facts”.

Life is wasted in haste when facts are not properly reviewed, especially if those facts will affect the very life that you command and, almost immediately, how you will command it from such point on. So, in the most casual of manners perhaps, we shall explore the nature of this information I will share with you; I most sincerely believe it will serve as fine aliment for both the mind and the soul.

Good bye, Newspapers...

Not so long ago – two years, one month, and five days ago to be precise – on Friday, February 27^th 2009, the Rocky Mountain News (RMN) printed its final edition after one hundred and fifty years of service. Yes, you are correct, it might seem like an awful lot of numbers for anything other than a math problem (especially when the magnitudes are spelled like that) but, ultimately, these will serve a fine purpose for there are two pivotal items which I ought to bring upon your attention. The first item is this: two years ago, Colorado’s biggest name in print news had to call it quits because the economical model they had been founded on was no longer self-sustainable. The second item is this: a revolution which had been stirred with grandma-like patience for the previous years had finally culminated and become official that Friday 27^th when the RMN printed its last circulation of copies for the state of Colorado, for the first giant had fallen. It was a matter of time until others would follow this terrible fate.

Not so surprisingly, the Seattle Post-Intelligencer did follow a month later and, eventually, many other colossal names in print journalism would react in the form of a desperate counter-measure by laying-off thousands of employees, prompting then a mesmerizing reality where fear was luridly glowing all over the industry. For the first time, the dead were writing and reading their own eulogies at their very own funerals. But what did this mean? And what about that revolution? Well, just hang in there with me.

Clay Shirky, a renowned scholar as well as the author of my introductory quote (among many other titles), originally credited Elizabeth Eisenstein for what he deemed as a “magisterial treatment of Gutenberg’s invention”. In retrospect, what Gutenberg did was much more than just become the first entrepreneur to successfully print in the western world. Movable type was not where his rippling influence ceased to exist. It is because of him that newspapers were able to build an empire out of paper and ink and, additionally, it was because of him along with Aldus Manutius – the inventor of the smaller octavo – that literature was suddenly desired. Copies of anything and everything were being distributed around the pan-European realm and so then, social classes were no longer an impediment for the consumption of knowledge. Ironically enough, and as the old information lost legitimacy, the new was thought of as untrustworthy, the latter phenomenon occurring simply because both elements were being so easily disseminated at a very fast pace. The written word, suddenly, was a necessity. And as such, it had a price.

The infrastructure required in order to efficiently operate and maintain a printing press, such as the one Gutenberg owned, topped as highly expensive. Which, consequently, led to the monopolistic treatment of a newly born industry that, in order to stay alive, received, edited, filtered, manufactured, published, and distributed information as it saw fit, therefore collecting massive amounts of revenue from various sectors of society. Additionally, the manufacturers of these newspapers would receive compensations for advertizing space due to their large circulation. The news reporting effort was honest during most of its existence, but the business model that had spawned from this was surely doomed since the only thing keeping such aforementioned model alive was the costs of maintaining and operating such immense infrastructure – the Achilles’ heel of the industry, alas revealed.

But let us not lose focus here though. Do you want to know why my career choice turned me into an immediate victim upon the eyes of the beholder? Well, it is quite simple. Because there is no economical model at the moment that can provide me with a consistent and self-sustainable form of profit, for information is no longer both manufactured and filtered by the sole owner of a particularly massive printing infrastructure but rather owned and operated by everyone. Do you want to know why journalism is such gargantuan scarecrow today? Well, because for almost six hundred years it had the newspaper as its main and most important platform. It was the preferred vehicle of the investigative and journalistic mind; it was our chariot of truth, or biggest testament to pristine and unadulterated facts, and the perfect chassis for the transportation of all that truly mattered to society, by society, for society. This is no lamentation though, for the wheel is still turning and it shall never stop; it is in our most honest efforts to adapt and thrive, believe me when I tell you this much is true.

We are in the middle of a communicational revolution, and the Internet, as you all very well know, is the main tool behind it. We no longer need filters in order to share information nor we need of some publisher’s approval in order to produce and distribute what we think is valuable information. The Internet took that humongous infrastructure which had reigned supreme throughout the last 6 centuries and just tossed it to the trash, passing the torch then to the hands of the people. What does this mean? Well, it’s simple. It means that since we have no middleman, we basically have no filter or wall obstructing our craft and that, eventually, anyone can share with the rest of the world whatever they see as fit. So now, owning and operating a massive printing press is as useless as owning a unicycle. Yes, eventually, somebody will take a ride in your unicycle but if they ever do, it will be because it’s cute and entertaining. The newspaper as we all know it just became that unicycle, for it is no longer a necessity, it is a hereditary trend from the past which is waiting to dissipate forever, slowly dying an agonizing death while pretending that it isn’t.

The almost indelible fact behind this apparently unattractive revolution is that since journalism has always been so closely intertwined with newspapers we now lack the journalistic effort to cope with the dying spirit of newspapers. Even though it was an accident at first, it later transformed into a solid misconception that, apparently, wounded both very close to each other to the point of almost merging them together. The accident is now gone, and with it, the promise of a consistent platform to write on. But journalism is not dead; journalism is not gone nor it is dying, it is just stranded in a completely different world and it is yet to find its new home. We are now living through what I like to call a not-so-smooth transition (read introductory quote please). We are officially stuck in a limbo. If journalists can profit from their hard work because they lack a profitable platform to work on then who would ever want to work as a journalist? And if journalism is gone, who is going to perform the duties that journalists all over the globe so proudly performed? Who is going to inform the world through a most professional method? Who will come out there, to the raging streets, when the torrential rain covers it all and there is a story to cover? The truth is, nobody knows.

The intricate rule behind communication today is this: creating is as easy as consuming; therefore, there is a lot of everything, everywhere. Why would I pay for a subscription at the New York Times if I can get my news from Phillip Defranco every day via YouTube? Why should I watch TV if can catch any of my favorite shows online for free and not have to sit through the annoying commercials? The truth is, nobody knows what the way out of this is. It is scary to think that there is no feasible model ready to relocate sales margins where they used to be. Want to know why? There is no business model that can fight the Internet because when a 15 year old can come up with a news casting show on YouTube and gather one million weekly views then you are just looking at the hardest competition ever, for that kid has little costs of production and a unimpeachable reputation, while your corporation manages millions of dollars every second in order to promote a reputation that will hopefully bring sponsors who want their name out there through your signal, therefore damaging your relationship with salient news consumers.

Does it all make sense now? We are living amidst a quiet revolution where not even the revolutionaries know how things will turn out. This is a tumultuous time for journalism because there is no answer for this chaotic resurgent of massive information. The important thing to remember is this: journalists should never stop writing; journalists should never stop reporting; journalists should never stop asking the questions that will let us see the truth; journalists should never give up for they are part of all that is good in society. They teach and inform, communicate and connect. We don’t need newspapers anymore, we need journalism; we don’t need printing presses anymore, we need journalism. We don’t need the old business model, we need the truth and nothing but the truth. No longer should a company dictate what I am to read simply because of their particular interests. We need journalism to redefine itself and come through more aggressive then ever, more real than ever before. We need real journalism to take over and lead the way towards a new model, one where the truth is considered revenue too.

Life is...

Picture by Emily Vicci

Tell the wounded soul that its destiny concludes in the rooms of pity and it shall rise stronger than ever, for the right words are the wrong words told at the right time. Tell the benighted boy that his knowledge signifies nothing and he shall discover the secrets of the universe, rendering any collection of words unworthy of his wisdom. Tell me, the exploring man, about the prophecies of time and in return I shall you tell you all about the burning furnace that warms my heart, of tales so intense that I was forced to forget all about the preposterous measurements of that apocryphal deity which speaks in a ticking tongue. Tell yourself, the protagonist, that the one thing you seek the most is far from attainable and then the fight will never even take place, for no set of wings has ever become fully airborne without first landing abruptly on the dusty ground. Tell yourself, the humble spectator, about how everything happens for a reason and then you’ll see that nothing ever happens because of the steps ahead but rather because of the steps you have already taken. Tell yourself, upon the mist of living, that life is just another certainty and you will soon find out that life has not one definition, but several. In futile efforts we attempt to contain so much meaning within the mere essence of such a small word, for “life” is everything and everyone. 

 Life is an infinite amount of poems, a study of questions that shall unapologetically remain unanswered; life is doubt and unquenchable curiosity, life is love and devotion and pain and grief. Life is a shudder sent down the spine when the piercing kiss of the night disarms you from the very shield which had you sheltered for so long, like the tear when it travels from the magical kingdom of your eyes until it finally reaches the spot where it shall dry away. Life is an inscrutable impulse, a blink and a sigh. Life is a dream, and dreaming is what welds it all together. Dreaming is what enables you and I to remember that life is like the scorching afternoon sun on the equator, like the dying star that shines on after being long gone. Dreaming is what sets us upon new endeavors and, ergo, new challenges. Dreaming is what lets us sail in quests across the blurry horizon, with hope as our strongest mast and with fear as our only companion among the colossal solitude of the sea. Life is everything and everyone. Life is yours for the molding. Learn all the rules to the craft of dreaming and then break free and live freely, for freedom is but a state of mind. Learn all the rules and then, when the time is right, break them. Learn to dream a life of appreciation for there is beauty in everything we control as well as in everything we don’t. Life is… what you make of it. Just dream on, and dream without remorse. Life is… now!

A Night at the Sea (The Role of the Rebel in Post-Modern Society) Pt. 2

            “Bust, bust, bust, bust!” a vibrant group of young adults chanted as the blackjack dealer was nimbly uncovering the nature of her final card. “Come on, come on, come through just this one time,” murmured the young capped fellow at the far end of the table. His faced pressed upon the flesh of his left palm, fixed in pose due to the effect of anticipation, with eyes as quiet as the gentle summer breeze. “Bust, bust, bust, bust!” chanted the group in the eve of a potential thrill. An enfilade of glaring eyes locked on the slight touch of a woman’s hand as she turned the rectangular piece of cardboard in order to ergo reveal its suit, and, soon enough, its highly relevant magnitude. The soft thud, produced by the weight of her almost mechanical, final movement, echoed throughout the periphery: It was the jack of spades. After the easy math was done, the obvious took place. The capped fellow bowed his head and clutched his receding hair. Silence drifted all along the table in the likes of a contagious disease: an epidemic of unavoidable distress and swift, unfortunate discomfort. Dull faces perpetuated by the ill-mannered habits of bad luck. “This is definitely enough for me,” reluctantly admitted the lady with the half-empty glass of chardonnay who, after drinking the last of her wine, nonchalantly began to pick up her chips. “Good night y’all,” said she, with a certain fragrance of condescendence, whilst waving her way out of the table. Though everyone envied her reaction, everyone still thought less of her for walking away. A pause suddenly filled the air. Silence drifted again, deeper and darker than ever. The dealer, quick on the finger, redistributed the cards to the remaining players. The circle had been completed; the round had taken place. This game was never going to end; at least not during the next hour, I thought.

            “The house always wins!” said some unknown source from behind my shoulders. The clicking sound of a thousand glasses softly reverberated in the background. Does the house always win? I asked myself as I turned my head back into the game. A glimpse at the all too familiar panorama forced me to act. I took some cautious steps forward into the table in order to gain better visibility, as if I was observing a herd of antelopes. I was kind enough to approach them in a stealthy manner, cunningly appreciative of the environment, for I wanted to remain anonymous and, on a parallel note, I wanted them to remain unbothered. Finally, after circumvallating the table with my studying eyes, I simply decided to watch. Why did they continue to play? I pondered. Are they satisfied with just winning a single hand after having lost 8 consecutive rounds? And, if winning one game was enough for them, what kind of reward were they looking for? Did they know nothing about the statistics of the game? Nothing more than a bunch of fools, I thought; nothing more than a bunch of blind fools. My eyes were locked onto the recycling episode set before me, for nothing seems to be more captivating than to watch a group of imbeciles fail countless times. How futile their efforts became when, obviously so, the game was constructed in order to have them lose ninety percent of the time. A never-ending circle of flagellating hope, I thought. How powerful the persistence of a blind man when all he wants is to walk into a brick wall, time after time again, thinking that eventually he ought to break through it. I shook my head slightly and turned on my heels for, apparently, I had seen enough. But then, as I had set to move away from such bizarre visuals, it came to me. My head was itching with the vibrant soreness of a sudden epiphany. It was a wonderful slap in the face: abrupt and concise and surprisingly enlightening. The house always wins, I remembered. “Always wins,” I murmured. They play because the house always wins. A smirk was drawn on my face. The seemingly inscrutable nature of these characters was finally being dissolved in the waters of my mind. They play because they know that the game is what forces them to lose; they want to stab the monster and bring it down. They play because they are challenging a rigid structure that was conceived in order to have them pour all of their money – and warm spirits – in exchange for nothing but whirlpools of false hope. They play because while others die behind a shield of indifference, they take everything they have and charge at dire certainty without hesitation. Money is never a pertinent matter when higher and yet more important things are at stake. Granted, nonetheless, is the fact that not everyone on that table had to ache for forty-plus hours a week in order to gather the right for being there that night, but, in regards to the real value of money – or any other possession which might’ve been at stake at that given moment – it was self-evident that it really signified nothing. The house always wins, or so they said.

The Sea @ Dawn...

            Later that night, I walked back to my cabin at a somewhat erratic pace. Upon descending the first flight of stairs, I devised a sort of lounging area which, to my convenience, was fashionably adequate and yet properly equipped with one of the most interesting architectural inventions of all time: a grand window. It’s familiar, rectangular shape provided with a portrait that was infinite in meaning; the view was daunting and tragically unfathomed. A black-hole curtain of immensity set before me, with nothing more than a sheet of glass as a mere portal to what demons beckoned on the other side. Oh, the roar of the mystic sea! It was the mortal torture of fear and curiosity that glued me to its mystery. The vast sea rampaging in a most elegant manner, dancing with a majestic force which cannot be described through the apathetic nature of words. Looking at the sea that night was the closest I ever was to being dead and, then again, it was the closest I ever was to being alive. Nothing would ever match its quiet intensity or its disarming simplicity. I was dumbfounded without remedy, for in such humble contemplation I had found meaning. I had to sit down and meditate. My forearms pressed against the armrests of the chair, my back locked in its position and my head lost in a body that couldn’t move. ­Would I play knowing that my fate was imperviously detrimental? Would I sit there and challenge the twisted nature of defeat with nothing more than hope by my side? The concept, though retrieved from an isolated instance, was remarkably universal. It was apparent I needed some rest. The night wouldn’t last forever and neither would my quixotic tangents. This too shall pass, I thought. I’ll take care of my apocryphal concerns next time I wake, I thought. To my surprise, however, I never went to bed. I couldn’t do it. It was the weight of my soul sinking within my body that kept me clear of consciousness. My rambling needed to reach a particular conclusion for this matter concerned the soul and, ergo, the very essence of life. I veered towards a different place now. My mind requested some superficial support and so I went on the search for a perhaps more intimate environment. I landed on the highest deck of the ship where the crowd was scattered in small groups and curiosity was reduced to a minimum. I guess that, up in that chamber, we were all self-absorbed, therefore not minding each other’s presence. The lack of company made my trance altogether more exquisite. I had finally been left to my own devices and, consequently, I was ready to resume on my intellectual endeavor with the absolute focus it required.

It is a tenebrous vision, life is. I sat that night and drank through an entire collection of bottles, thinking about what I had seen earlier that evening, trying to make something out of it, reconciling with the ghost of theories left unfinished. It was so much to compile. It was so much to say. Where should I start? I asked myself. After having rambled for long enough, I simply lost track and decided, in seconds flat, to propose this newfound philosophy to the cruelest judge of them all: myself. Thereon and with little remorse for my denotative repercussions, I gave life to the words of my mind. I reckon that a blackjack game cannot mean much if one considers the very nucleus of the same for, indeed, it is just a game. But isn’t life a game as well? I don’t mean to pass on the clichés which we’ve heard numerous times but, isn’t life sometimes a satire to our very dreams? Why do we learn so much about nothing if all we need to do is err until the laughter has consumed our guts? The path we are given is a highway towards imitation, a route towards a well-known end. We are taught, from a very early stage, about the importance of the tools that should be recollected if we want to succeed in the world waiting ahead. We are taught about pragmatism and about efficacy. We are molded into one-sided machines; monotonous predators who endure thousands of hours of mimicking torture. We are told that some dreams are not suited for the heart of an adult who, among other things, needs to fulfill its quota with society. We are taught about the heroes who, with all of their passionate lunacy, founded countries and explored new continents but, nevertheless, in the haste of preventing more subjective meanings, we are also taught to disgust rebels and geniuses of kinds unlabeled. How come we aren’t taught to pursue our wildest dreams? Is it because life in itself is a game which is designed to have us conform and never confront? Is it because it is easier to control us whenever we don’t pursue an intellectually higher life? I understand our adherence to the norms of the socio-economical system in which we live but have you ever wondered if this is all there is to life? The prospect of something positively marvelous emerging due to my hard work and persistence vanquishes every other possible obstacle that may appear once the odyssey is proposed and eventually accepted. I want a life without incompletes and without conformity. I want to save nothing for tomorrow; I want to rebel against the monster that tells me everything around me is designed to watch me fall. I want to dream an unfettered dream and laugh madly at my own mistakes. But, most importantly, I want to see a rebellion of hearts take over the streets of this far too quiet world and rejoice in the power of their choices. The labyrinth is a beautiful place where we shall burn until the flame consumes into an imploding light of genius. We need to shoot for our dreams. I know I do, for water and a hungry heart are the only things that will keep us all young at heart. Does the house always win? We shall see, we shall soon all see.